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EBB and FLOW 



LYDIA L. ROUSE 

i) 

AUTHOR OF . 


“ Angus Leslie's Daughter," “ The Laird's Son" 



NEW YORK: HUNT & EA TON 
Cl NC INN A TI: CRANSTON & STOWE 
1892 




Copyright, 1892, by 

HUNT & EATON, 


New York. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. page 


The Kenyons 



Grandfather’s Gift. . . 

CHAPTER II. 


John’s Disappointment. 

CHAPTER III. 


Burial and Betrothal 

CHAPTER IV. 

r •• 31 

The New Home 

CHAPTER V. 

39 

Once More the Ebb. . . 

CHAPTER VI. 


Under a New Roof. . . 

CHAPTER VII. 


Judy Morrison 

CHAPTER VIII. 


News of John 

CHAPTER IX. 


CHAPTER X. 

An Auld Man Slips Away 

67 

The Dominie’s Sister. . . 

CHAPTER XI. 

74 


CHAPTER XII. 

A Reunion at the Manse 80 


4 Contents. 

CHAPTER XIII. PAGE 

A Hard "Winter .... 85 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Spring and Home 92 

CHAPTER XV. 

Forebodings 100 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The Fortune of War 106 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Comforts in Sorrow 114 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Widows and Friends 119 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Miss Catharine’s Maneuver 128 

CHAPTER XX. 

To Follow the Pattern 134 

CHAPTER XXI. 

In School-days 140 

CHAPTER XXII. 

The Tide Ebbs 148 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Angus at Last! 154 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Changing Her World 158 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Mark Raeburn’s Danger 164 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

A Fair Start in Perth 1*10 


5 


Contents. 

CHAPTER XXVII. page 

The Pure in Heart 181 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A Weary Traveler 188 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Prayer Availeth Much 194 

CHAPTER XXX. 

The Lord Gave, the Lord Taketh Away 199 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

Founding a Family 205 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

Through III Report 211 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

An Awkward Lover 217 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“That Good Gray Head” 222 

* 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

“He’s Awa”’ 226 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Uncle Mark’s Visit 230 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Visiting at Cousin Ellen’s 235 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Almost a Tragedy 240 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

The Widow Craik’s Cow 246 

CHAPTER XL. 

“Dolly, Bide With Us” 252 


6 


Contents. 


CHAPTER XLI. page 

In Craik Cottage 260 

CHAPTER XLII. 

The Bairns Bring Her Round 268 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

“Bless You, My Children” 274 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

“One that was Born Blind” 281 

CHAPTER XLY. 

A Changed Man 285 

CHAPTER XLYI. 

Within a Prison Cell 289 

CHAPTER XLYII. 

Reunions 295 

CHAPTER XLYIII. 

Alice Craik at Service 300 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

The Blind Bairn 307 

CHAPTER L. 

Widow Raeburn’s Affliction 312 

CHAPTER LI. 

The Good Old Doctor 315 

CHAPTER LII. 

Mark’s Mother Finds a Home 319 

CHAPTER LIII. 

A Brief Look Around 323 


EBB AND FLOW. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE KENYONS. 

Under the shadow of a small mountain not far from 
Greenock stood the farm-house of Andrew Kenyon. 
It was the only home he had ever known, and he 
thought it the dearest spot on earth. Almost every 
day of his threescore and ten years he had gazed upon 
that mountain, and he never failed to find something 
new to admire. He loved to watch its verdant slopes 
in summer, his eyes feasted upon the rich coloring 
that autumn traced upon the woods, and in winter, 
when snow and ice covered the whole scene, he found 
something to gratify his simple yet poetic fancy. 

At the time our story opens Andrew Kenyon was 
a hale old man, and his wife, his Annie of other days, 
was still with him, sharing alike his joys and his 
sorrows. The old couple had toiled together for 
many years, and now they were glad to lay down 
their cares, and the management of the farm devolved 
upon his youngest son, Robert, who, with his wife 
and six children, made a family of ten members under 
the old roof. 

It is evening when we get our first glimpse of this 


8 


Ebb and Flow. 


household, and an unusual silence and sadness per- 
vade the home. Old Andrew sits beside his wife, 
but they are not looking at each other. His eyes are 
downcast, and tears are upon both faces. The hus- 
band holds an open letter which has just been received. 
It contained sad tidings, which have caused their 
grief. Jeannie, their only daughter, has died in 
England, whither she had gone with her husband, 
Lewis Laidlaw, immediately after her marriage, thir- 
teen years ago. 

The parents had mourned because Jeannie must 
live so far away that they could hope to see her only 
at long intervals. They had scarcely become recon- 
ciled to the separation when her husband sickened 
and died, leaving his wife with a little daughter a year 
old. Then old Andrew and his wife wanted Jeannie 
to return to the farm-house, but for several reason^ she 
preferred to remain in the home her husband left her. 
They saw the justice of her decision, and they beguiled 
many a weary day in thinking of that beautiful home 
that they had once visited. Often, too, they thought 
of their little granddaughter, Jessie, who had more 
than once come among them like a stray sunbeam. 

Now* the letter tells them that their Jeannie is 
away from earth, and no wonder that their hearts 
are stricken ; no wonder that their sudden grief claims 
the only luxury left it — that of silence. At length 
the old man lifted his head and through the dimness 
of tears sought his son’s face. 

“ Robert,” he said, “ the old hame is full, but we 
maun make room for our Jeannie’s lass.” 

Robert bowed his head three times, as if to say, 
“ That is all that can be done.” 


The Kenyons. 


9 


“Ay, that maun be done,” his father repeated, “ for 
this aunt of Laidlaw’s says that she canna take charge 
o’ Jessie, and the bairn has no other friends there.” 

Again silence fell upon the group. Nothing broke 
the stillness unless it was the soft footfall of Alice 
Kenyon as she busied herself with some domestic 
duties. Even the children felt that awe that death 
brings, and one after another they had seated them- 
selves upon a low settle by the fire-place. The two 
older children were sitting by their grandmother look- 
ing the sympathy which they longed to speak. The 
bereaved mother had not raised her head since the 
heavy news had fallen upon her heart, and no one 
felt like intruding upon her grief even to offer any 
consolation. 

At last, when the silence became too oppressive, 
Andrew Kenyon spoke. 

V Annie,” he said, “ Annie, it wnnna do to gie your 
heart up to the breaking o’ ’t.” 

Being thus addressed, she wailed out, “ O, Jeannie, 
my Jeannie, has the dark, cauld grave claimed you?” 

“ Ca’ not upon the bairn, my poor dearie, but ca’ 
upon Him with whom she is ; for he can baitli hear and 
help,” said her husband, trying to steady his voice. 

“ Ay, mither, ca’ upon him,” spoke in Robert. 

•“ Let every heart ca’ upon him for me,” she replied, 
“ for my poor heart is sairly cast down.” 

A tender, touching prayer was offered that night, 
and we may well believe that every heart joined with 
the aged man who led the worship. Soon after all 
the family went to rest, feeling that their sorrow was 
calmed because they had asked help of their heavenly 
Father. 


10 


Ebb and Flow. 


There was one thing now upon which the aged 
couple seemed bent, and this was to have Jessie Laid- 
law at the farm-house as soon as possible. The next 
morning as they sat at breakfast the father asked, 
“ Robert, do you think that you can set out at ance 
to bring J eannie’s lass liame ? ” 

“Not just at ance, but I can go in two or three 
days,” Robert replied. 

His father sighed and answered, “ Weel, weel, the 
best that a body can do is his best, to be sure. But I 
am fain to set my old e’en upon the lassie, since she 
is a’ that is left of our Jeannie.” 

He was even more anxious than he cared to tell 
liis son for fear of seeming impatient and unreason- 
able. He talked of the child to his wife almost con- 
stantly, and before nightfall she was so anxious to 
clasp Jessie in her arms that her mind was not a little 
relieved. 

Ten days later Robert Kenyon, having made the 
trip, returned with Jessie Laidlaw. She was nearly 
twelve years old, and already quite womanly in her 
ways. It was evident that she had been her mother’s 
companion, for she talked and thought beyond her 
years. The grandparents were well pleased with 
her, and they were glad of an opportunity to present 
her to their friends as “ our Jeannie’s lass.” The 
uncle and aunt at once discovered that Jessie had 
received better advantages than their own children, 
nor could they help seeing that she was better looking 
and more finely formed than their stout, chubby 
Ellen. But this did not make them uneasy, for Ellen 
was a good child and a great comfort to them. John, 
their first-born, they were sure -was not a whit behind 


The Kenyons. 


11 


any body’s son, and the four little ones were well 
enough. So, if Jessie had attended a city school, and 
had been better bred than their own children, they 
granted with perfect good nature that she had prof- 
ited by her chances and was a “ right good and bon- 
nie lassie.” 

John and Ellen were a little shy of the new-comer, 
though the former at once declared that there was 
not “such another lass at the kirk as Cousin Jessie.” 
The little children were drawn to her, for she imme- 
diately set herself to make friends of them. Sad as 
she was on account of her recent bereavement, and 
much as she missed her home and all its pleasant 
associations, she never alluded to her troubles in a 
manner that damped the joy of the other children or 
renewed the sorrow of her grandparents. More than 
once Alice Kenyon remarked to her husband, “ How 
weel the bairn stands a’ the changes that have come 
to her!” And sometimes she thought, though she 
never said so, that Jessie was wanting in feeling. 
She often missed the child and wondered where she 
was, and one day, fearing she would take cold, she 
went to look for her. She went to the room that Jes- 
sie shared with Ellen, but no Jessie was there. She 
searched all the other rooms without finding her, and 
was just crossing a dark passage when she heard a 
faint sob. 

“Jessie! Jessie-! ” she called, softly. 

“ Ma’am ? ” was the reply, but even that short word 
was spoken in an unsteady voice. 

“ What is wrong, my lassie ? Havena the other 
bairns been gude to you ? ” 

“ O, ay ! But, auntie, my heart is very sad, and I 


12 


Ebb and Flow. 


must not trouble others with my grief, so I must go 
by myself sometimes and cry.” 

“ Dinna come here in the cold to greet, poor lamb. 
Come to me.” 

Jessie came from the dark corner as she was bidden, 
and Alice Kenyon put her motherly arms about her 
and kissed her tenderly. 

“ You have borne heavy sorrows for such a young 
lass, but we a’ are your friends, mind that. Now 
dry your eyes and come with me to my ain room.” 
As she closed the door she said, “ When you want 
to go by yoursel’ come in here. There is my Bible 
on the stand, and in it you will find that the father- 
less are God’s special care.” 

She said no more, and left Jessie to herself. This 
was the first caress that she had received from her 
aunt, and it warmed her heart. Alice Kenyon was 
not wanting in affection, but she seldom showed what 
she felt. The child’s grief had touched her, and then 
she had shown the depth of her great kind heart. 
After she left Jessie she wondered that she had shown 
so much feeling, and she was half inclined to think 
that she had committed folly, when Jessie entered 
the room and gave her a grateful, trusting look. Mrs. 
Kenyon turned away to hide a tear, thinking, “ It is 
the kind ways of her mither that the lass hungers 
for.” Finding her mother-in-law alone that afternoon, 
she said : 

“Mither, you praise Jessie, and she weel deserves 
it, but she does not care for praise. What she craves 
is a kiss and a wee hug ance in a while. Havena you 
noticed that is what she is aye doing to the little 
ones ? ” 


The Kenyons. 


13 


“ I hae had it in my heart to kiss her mony times, 
but she is sae womanly that I feared she wouldna 
take it weel.” 

Alice Kenyon’s words were not forgotten, and the 
old lady never afterward hesitated to follow the 
promptings of her warm heart. And the conse- 
quence was that the orphan girl received the tokens 
of affection that she had missed so much. 


14 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER II. 

GRANDFATHER’S GIFT. 

Jessie had not been long with her mother’s friends 
when she became acquainted with Annice Robinson, 
the pastor’s daughter, and a life-long friendship was 
formed. As time passed Jessie’s sorrow had soft- 
ened, and she was fitted to make a very pleasant com- 
panion. She was the life of all the children’s gath- 
erings, though she never took part in any noisy plays. 
She was very fond of her uncle’s family, though no 
one could understand her as Annice Robinson did. 
For Annice, too, was an only child, and she best knew 
how to meet the orphaned Jessie. 

Notwithstanding her efforts to be cheerful Jessie 
could not think her new home any thing but gloomy 
in winter, but as spring came on she hailed it with 
delight, and agreed with her grandfather, with whom 
she roved the fields, that it was a bonnie country, 
and their home was in the bonniest place of all. 

Andrew Kenyon was never happier than when his 
sweet granddaughter, his Jeannie’s lass, walked hand in 
hand with him upon the mountain-side. Her quiet de- 
light in all she saw suited him. He had reached that 
time of life when any boisterous demonstration, even 
of gladness, disturbed him. Besides, Jessie saw the 
poetry in nature that he himself saw. The grand- 
mother had made the same discovery, and she would 
say to herself, as she saw them go out to walk to- 


Grandfather’s Gift. 


15 


gether, “Ay, let them gang togitlier. They are 
weel mated in their love for sunshine and flowers 
and the bit burnies and sic like ; the gudemon will 
be a bairn in that respect as lang as he lives.” And 
she was right. Andrew Kenyon would never grow 
•old in heart. True, he might soon become enfeebled 
in body so that he could not visit the haunts he loved, 
but it would not be long before his captive spirit 
would soar to fairer worlds than this, where there is 
neither old age nor weariness. 

Jessie &nd her grandfather had one day climbed 
half-way up the mountain. At last they seated them- 
selves beneath a tree to rest, for the old man was 
panting, though he smiled at his weariness. They 
looked down on the farm-house, the barns, and the 
orchards, and as they gazed the grandfather’s mind 
reverted to other days. 

“ Mony a time I hae sat here with your mither,” he 
said. “ Tell me, lassie, all that you ken about her.” 

Jessie scarcely knew where to begin, and she said, 
slowly, 

“ I mind that she was good.” 

“ Ay,” said the old man, to encourage her. 

“And wise,” said Jessie. 

“Ay.” 

“ And bonnie,” continued the child. 

“ Ay, she was that.” 

“ I remember that she was very fond of her friends, 
that she loved flowers and books, and she was so 
good, so fondly good, to me, her poor orphan child.” 

Here she broke down and cried, and the old man 
shed a few tears in company. Then he stopped and 
said : 


16 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ Dinna, Jessie, dinna greet. I am sorry that I 
wrought upon your mind sae as to renew your grief. 
I thought you kenned ere this that your rnither was 
happier awa’ than wi’ us.” 

“ I do know it, but there come times when I could 
find it in my heart to call her back for a little while, 
that I might lay my head upon her lap, as I used to do 
in the gloaming.” 

“ Poor lamb ! ” was the reply, and then both were 
silent. 

After a few minutes Jessie asked : 

u Would you mind telling me something about her 
when she was a little girl ? ” 

u Ha, lassie, na. Indeed, I loe to talk o’ her ; and 
this is a good place to ca’ up a mental vision o’ her. 
Up and down these braes she has often rin wi’ the 
fleetness o’ a young roe, her yellow curling hair 
tossing in the breeze, her dog, Prince, frisking at her 
side. That was when she was a wee lass. But when 
she grew aulder she had mair simple, childish ways 
than became her years. Ah ! weel, time hurried by 
and your father claimed my sweet, bonnie daughter, 
lie took her awa’ wi’ him, and she was mine na 
mair.” 

“ Hot so, grandfather. She loved you well ; that 
I have from her own lips. She often said that her 
heart and yours must have been cast in the same 
mold, since they had but one choice in every thing.” 

“Did she say that? Well, you are like her in 
mony things. Your grandmither says you are like 
me too. It is amaist a pity that with a’- the love we 
hae for the beautiful in nature nane o’ us can make 
a song in her praise. But perhaps you will do it, or 


Grandfather’s Gift. 17 

your bairns, or your bairns’ bairns. Surely there 

should be a poet somewhere in the race of us.” 

Jessie did not reply, but even then bits of poetic 
description were passing through her mind. Her 
mother’^ books were all that she had brought from 
her home in England. The home was still to be dis- 
posed of, and its furniture was left in it. But she 
could not feel at home without the books she loved, 
and she pored over them so intently that her friends 
often planned to break in upon her cpiiet. Some- 
times it was the grandmother with a stocking to fin- 
ish, sometimes the children claimed her, and often 
John asked her to ride with him to sec Annice as lie 
passed the parsonage on his way to the market-town. 
The last plan broke up many a day, and cost John 
some little falsehoods, for if Jessie hesitated about 
going he would say, “Annice -expects you to-day.” 
John was a bright, laughing boy, and Jessie was a 
little too sad for one so young, so each did the other 
good. 

Ellen sometimes wondered why Jessie had all the 
rides and she all the work for her share. But she 
generally settled the question, like an easy, good- 
natured girl as she was, by saying, “ I suppose it is 
because Jessie is Aunt Jeannie’s lass and because she 
is smart and bonnie, and I am neither. And then 
she has money, and she needna moil and toil as long 
as she lives. Some things do seem queer to me, but 
it is God who appoints us our places, and we must not 
question his will.” 

Besides this submission to the will of Providence 
she had the satisfaction of knowing that she pleased 
her parents. Nor was it an unfrequent thing to hear 
2 


IS 


Ebb and Flow. 


her grandmother say, “ Ellen is a rare hand at most 
kinds of work — that is, for a lass.” So she gathered 
all the comfort that she could from her daily round 
of duties, and she was not envious when Jessie took 
her hat and carried her grandfather his cane prepar- 
atory to a walk in the fields with him, or when John 
and his cousin drove away in the morning and never 
seemed to think that the faithful Ellen might enjoy 
a change. 

Although Ellen did not murmur at her lot there 
was one person who chafed to see her under the heavy 
burdens she bore, and that person was her father. 
Neither did it quite please him that the grandfather 
always seemed to prefer one granddaughter before 
the other. However, he said nothing until one day 
the old gentleman came from the town with a present 
for each girl. But as Jessie was accustomed to nice 
things her gift was finer than Ellen’s. That evening, 
as the two men sat in the “ chimney-neuk ” alone, 
Robert spoke : 

u Father, do you forget what it was that worked 
mischief in the family of Jacob ? ” 

“ I trow not ; but what have I done, my son ? ” 

“ Not so muckle, perhaps, but I thought you would 
do weel to remember the unwise love that made 
choice and gave the favorite the coat of many colors.” 

“ O, Robert, have I hurt your feelings the day ? I 
gied to each lass what I thought best for each.” 

“ Ay, that is it ! Because Jessie has many fine 
things what a body gies her must be fine ; and be- 
cause my poor lassie never had a bonnie thing to gie 
her pleasure and make her look like itlier young 
maids ony thing is good enough for her.” 


Grandfather’s Gift. 


19 


“ I didna mean that, my son ; 1 was only looking 
at the fitness o’ things.” 

“ What fitness ? Do you think you would see the 
fitness if you were Ellen’s father, or if, instead of 
Ellen, it was your ain Jeannie ? No, sir ; you would 
have seen as I do, you would have looked out of a 
father’s e’en. I do no mair.” 

“ Then you think that both lassies should liae re- 
ceived the same present ? ” 

“ I do. If you had done that and said naething 
about it it would be well, or if you had said, ‘ Here is 
a scarf, Ellen, and if it is too fine to match the rest of 
your clothing you can remember that your grandfa- 
ther wanted you to have ane bonnie thing.’ Ellen is 
a good girl, and she saves us the wages of a servant.” 

“That is so, Robert, and since you are offended 
with me about the gift, I will take it back to-morrow 
and change it. But dinna let ony ane ken that I had 
to be shown my duty.” 

So the next morning the old gentleman said, “El- 
len, gie me the bit scarf, or shawl, or whatever you 
call it. I maun take it back and exchange it for ane 
like Jessie’s. I maun hae had dust in my auld e’en 
not to hae seen that you deserved the bonniest scarf 
I could find. Furthermore, I want you to gang wi’ 
me. See if your mither canna do without her handy 
lassie for a few hours.” 

Alice Kenyon readily consented to the proposal, 
and Ellen was soon riding along enjoying the pleasant 
scenery and the freshness of the June morning. As 
they passed the manse Annice came out to meet Jes- 
sie, as she supposed ; but her welcome was none the 
less cordial when she saw Ellen. 


20 


Ebb and Flow. 


She pressed her to come in, but the grandfather 
said, “ No, Miss Annice, Ellen maun gang the whole 
way wi’ me. An auld man like mysel’ needs looking 
after sometimes.” 

Mr. Robinson, too, came to the wagon and shook 
hands with both. Ellen loved her pastor, and she 
was always pleased when he noticed her ; so when he 
said, “Well, my good lassie, how are you this fine 
moaning ? ” she smiled her thanks for his pleasant 
words, and replied, “ I am right weel, thank you, 
sir.” 

When they had gone a little way Ellen discovered 
that her grandfather had a good reason for asking her 
to go to town with him. He wished her to select a 
dress for herself, and he made it known in this ab- 
rupt fashion : 

“ What do you say to a braw new goun the day-? ” 

The quiet child was startled into saying, “ Grand- 
father, you dinna mean that ? ” 

“ Ay, but I do mean it, and you are to make choice 
for yoursel’.” 

“ Then I will have a blue goun, for I .like that 
color right weel.” 

The grandfather was by no means destitute of taste, 
and he looked the blue-eyed, flaxen-haired Ellen full 
in the face. “You have made a good choice, Ellen,” 
he said. “ You would do weel to wear blue a good deal, 
then you will be a veritable blue-bell o’ Scotland.” 

Again Ellen smiled a glad smile ; the words of her 
grandfather pleased her. She often heard him talk 
to Jessie in like manner, but no such notice had been 
taken of herself. She returned home a very happy 
girl, and every one admired her presents and enjoyed 


Grandfather’s Gift. 21 

the beaming face of the usually staid and quiet 
Ellen. 

That evening Robert and his father were smoking 
together as usual. The old man broke the silence by 
saying, “ Robert, you did weel to remind me o’ my 
duty to Ellen. I wouldna for twice the cost o’ the 
presents have missed the happy look she has worn 
the day.” 

Robert smiled as he answered, “ I’m for thinking 
that the happiness of bairns is more easily helped or 
hindered than we think. Often their hearts are long- 
ing to ken if we appreciate their efforts to do weel, 
and they wonder if we really love them when at the 
same time all that is lacking is the demonstration of 
our affection. Now, there is Alice. She loves her 
children full weel, I know, but she often gies them a 
bit push when they get in her way, and she seldom 
stoops to put a kiss upon their faces. The one would 
take no more time than the other, but the unpleasant 
thing: is done and the other left undone. The atmos- 
phere of home is affected by these little things, you 
mind. Not that I would find ony fault with my faith- 
ful Alice, God bless her ! But I speak of it to show 
that this mistake is a general one.” 

“ Ay, I see. There is muckle in what you say, 
Robert. I am right sorry if I hae neglected to 
show the kind feelings I hae for your flock of bairns 
because I hae been so taken up wi’ our Jeannie’s 
lass.” 

“ Say no mair about it,” said Robert. “We under- 
stand each other now. It is an easy mistake to make, 
since Jessie is orphaned, poor lass.” 

Notwithstanding the grandfather’s good intentions 


22 


Ebb and Flow. 


he gradually drifted back into the old way, but his 
son was too good-natured to remind him again of his 
fault. His mental comment was, “ Weel, he is auld. 
I maun expect him to take up notions, and if he dotes 
more on ane bairn than anither, why, let him. I shall 
not worry him about it.” 


John’s Disappointment. 


23 


CHAPTER III. 

JOHN’S DISAPPOINTMENT. 

The years hurried on, and the inmates of the farm- 
house on the mountain-side changed accordingly. 
There were no wee bairns in the home now, for the 
four small children we saw on the settle at the open- 
ing of our story grew into stout, healthy lads, and 
Jessie, Ellen, and John were no longer looked upon as 
children. But in some things they had not changed. 
Ellen was the same dutiful daughter. She had im- 
proved much in looks. Her yellow hair had grown 
several shades darker, and her eyes were a deeper 
blue, while her fair cheeks wore a becoming tinge of 
pink. Even John, her brother, who had no eyes save 
for his dark-eyed cousin, surprised her one day by re- 
marking, “ I say, Ellen, you are growing bonnie.” 

But if this praise was true of Ellen it was much more 
often said of Jessie. Often and often the grandparents 
remarked to each other, “ Our Jeannie’s lass has a rare 
lovely face.” Strangers, too, did not fail to notice that 
Jessie Laid law was a very lovely girl. 

Jessie had just turned eighteen when she became 
acquainted with a young naval officer by the name of 
Evan Raeburn. He came to the quiet neighborhood 
in company with a friend of his, Richard Gilmore by 
name. Young Gilmore w T as a distant relative of the 
pastor’s wife, and for several summers he had spent a 
few w T eeks at the manse. Annice and Jessie were as 


u 


Ebb and Flow. 


firm friends as ever, and so it was quite natural that 
the latter should meet young Lieutenant Raeburn, 
particularly as Richard Gilmore was interested in 
Annice Robinson and wished that his friend should 
be equally interested in her friend. At first the 
meetings of the young people were very general, 
John and Ellen being present. Whether John was 
jealous of the stranger is not known, but certain it is 
that he kept Jessie by his side and favored a friend- 
ship between Ellen and Lieutenant Raeburn. 

More than one noticed this policy of John, and the 
young officer, who was fast losing his heart, ascer- 
tained through the family at the manse that Jessie 
had not formed an attachment for her cousin. Mean- 
time John Kenyon declared his love for Jessie, and 
also told her that he thought Raeburn was fast be- 
coming fond of Ellen. They were walking together 
in the starlight, and John could not see that Jessie’s 
cheek blanched, but he heard the tremor in her voice 
as she answered him : 

“John, I am your sister if you will think me so, 
but I cannot be more.” 

“ Don’t say it, Jessie. Don’t answer me to-night. 
Think it over ; think of all we have been to each 
other in these six years.” 

“We have been cousins, friends, John, no more.” 

“ You have been more than that to me, Jessie. 
You have been associated with every thought of my 
future life.” 

“ All I can say is that I am very sorry. I am sure 
that I am not to blame for this. I have always had a 
sister’s love for yon, John. How could you take it 
in your head to love me in another way ? ” 


John’s Disappointment. 


25 


“ I did not take it in my head, Jessie ; it crept into 
my heart.” 

Jessie went into the house without making any 
reply. 

When Annice came to see her the next day she 
told her the whole story. Her heart was over- 
burdened ; she did not know that she would receive 
any sympathy at home, and she naturally turned to 
her bosom friend. 

Annice’s first words were, “It is not Ellen that 
Lieutenant Raeburn cares for ; it is you, my dear 
Jessie.” 

“ You don’t know that, Annice,” Jessie replied, 
hoping that she would be contradicted. 

And she was, for Annice answered, “ Ay, but I do, 
and the poor young man was in a sore strait because 
he feared from John’s manner that you were already 
betrothed to him.” 

“ I never loved John except as a cousin or a 
brother, and I never can, though I could weep for 
the poor lad’s disappointment.” 

Annice was convinced that there was nothing in 
the way of Raeburn’s suit, and she lost no time in 
telling Richard Gilmore, who communicated the news 
to his friend. 

The meaning of all these pleasant gatherings had 
not escaped older eyes, and there had been much 
guessing going on among the grandparents. Some- 
times they thought that the handsome young officer 
fancied Ellen, then they were sure that it was “ our 
Jeannie’s lass.” Robert and Alice Kenyon paid little 
heed to the matter until they had their attention called 
to it by the grandmother. So it frequently happens 


26 


Ebb akd Flow. 


that old age, having cast aside the carking cares of 
middle life, acquires a relish for gossip or romance 
that quite surprises younger friends. Robert’s answer 
to his mother was proof of this. 

“ How now, mither, have you taken to match-mak- 
ing in your auld days ? ” he said, good-naturedly. 

The old lady was a little ruffled, and she replied, 
“ I hae na thought to make matches, but when 
you hae lost a daughter or a niece you will ken for 
yoursel’ that young folk will make matches whether I 
see it or not.” 

It was not a pleasant prospect to Ellen’s parents 
that she might wed a soldier ; they would far sooner 
see her marry a young farmer. Neither would they 
wish to see Jessie united to one whose calling would 
take him so far from home and at the same time be 
so dangerous. They had no other objection, for they 
did not know of their son’s preference for his cousin, 
nor would they be likely to encourage it. But John 
— poor John ! — thought that the relationship might 
and ought to be nearer. However, before Lieutenant 
Raeburn left the manse John lost all hope, for Jessie 
had acknowledged that she cared for the young offi- 
cer as she never before had cared for any one, and he 
had solemnly avowed his intention to win her if pos- 
sible. 

When John heard this he said, in a husky voice, 
“ If he wins Jessie this part of Scotland will not hold 
me.” 

“What folly, John!” his mother exclaimed, on 
hearing this ; then added, “ Whatever should we do 
without you if your foolishness should run to that 
length ? ” 


John’s Disappointment. 


27 


“ The other lads would be right good help if I should 
gaug. I cannot bide here and know that Jessie be- 
longs to another. Let me but make sure of that and 
I’m away.” 

It is needless to say that Jessie suffered too. It 
was hard to see her bright, merry cousin so cast down 
and to know that she was the cause of liis trouble. 
Yet she spoke the truth when she said that she had 
never encouraged him to hope for her love ; so, 
although she was sad, she had no cause to reproach 
herself. John resolved to have one more talk with 
Jessie, and he learned from her own lips that she 
loved Raeburn. The interview was a short one, and 
as John turned away she tried to tell him how sorry 
she was for him ; but he declined hearing her, saying, 
in a constrained voice, “I have heard enough, Jessie. 
Whatever you can say now will avail me but little. 
I can neither say nor hear more.” 

The next week John enlisted in the service of the 
navy. It was the first break in the Kenyon family, 
the first important change, even, in the home-life. It 
seemed after his departure that the current of domes- 
tic happiness no longer ran smoothly. Jessie felt 
that she was unpleasantly situated. She did not 
know how much her uncle’s family might charge her 
with being the disturber of their peace, and she had 
serious thoughts of leaving the home that had shel- 
tered her so kindly ; for she felt that she brought no 
blessing to it. She spoke to Annice about it, and she 
begged her not to go. Mr. Robinson thought best to 
dissuade her, and he represented the grief that her 
aged grandparents would feel at her loss, and Jessie 
yielded. But she grew pale and she was often sad. 


28 


Ebb and Flow. 


This touched the kind heart of Alice Kenyon, and 
one day Avhen she heard the not infrequent sigh from 
her niece she spoke, saying : 

“Hoot, lassie! Leave sighing for aulder folk to 
do.” Then, speaking more kindly, she said, “Jessie, 
you are over pale. I dinna like to see you look so. 
Get back your rosy cheeks, for they weel become 
you.” 

“ Aunt Alice, I fear that I have caused unhappi- 
ness to come to this home, and I cannot bear the 
thought. I have received only good at the hands of 
you all, and I would not thus requite your kindness.” 

“ Poor lassie, I ken right weel that if you have 
made trouble you have done it unwittingly ; further- 
more, I may as weel tell you that I blame my son, 
not you. I wouldna have thought it wise for you and 
he to wed, and besides if you could na love him you 
couldna.” 

Jessie sprang up and threw her arms around her 
aunjt’s neck and said, “ O, auntie ! You make me 
happy again.” 

But the happy look vanished the next minute as 
she asked, “How does Uncle Robert feel about it? 
Is he angry with me ? ” 

“ Angry with you ? Why, lassie, no. He thinks as 
I do, that John acted very foolishly. Of course we 
are sorry for the lad, but we dinna blame you.” 

“A great load has been lifted from my mind,” said 
Jessie. But there was another question to be asked, 
and very slowly came the words : “ One thing more, 
dear, kind auntie. Are you disappointed that Lieu- 
tenant Raeburn did not fancy Cousin Ellen? John 
said you were.” 


John’s Disappointment. 


29 


“ The poor lad maun have made a ‘ lee out o’ whole 
cloth,’ for we would far rather see Ellen wed a farmer 
laddie.” 

“And Ellen herself?” persisted Jessie. “She 
seems so distant. Why is it ? ” 

“If Ellen is distant it is because she thinks you 
love Annice better than herself, that maun be all. 
Ellen loves her friends weel, and wants them to love 
her, though she hasna the way to show the one or ask 
the other. Ellen is a good lass, and a great comfort 
to us in these days.” 

“ I do love Ellen, but I fear we never understood 
each other very well. I will go now and seek her. I 
know she is good, much better than I am.” 

“ She needna be that,” were the words that Jessie’s 
aunt sent after her in reply to her last remark. She 
did not intend them for Jessie’s ears, but she heard 
them and came back to say, “ Thank you, Aunt Alice.” 

Aunt Alice smiled in return, and when she was 
sure of not being overheard she spoke again to her- 
self, saying, “ Ah, weel, I am glad that the bairn feels 
better for what I told her, for I dinna like to see her 
troubled. Trouble will come soon enough with a 
v soldier for a husband.” She was silent for a long 
time, for she was thinking of John, her first-born, and 
of the dangers to which he was exposed, and she 
sighed rather than said, “ Poor John, my poor John ! ” 

Jessie found Ellen in their own room, and she said, 
“I am glad to find you here, Ellen, for I want a long 
talk with you.” 

Ellen looked up rather surprised at such an an- 
nouncement, for of late there had been few confer- 
ences between them. 


30 


Ebb and Flow. 


“What do you want to say, Jessie ? ” she inquired 
in her quiet fashion. 

“ A great deal, Ellen ; or not so much to say, but it 
means a great deal to both of us. Let us show the 
love we have for each other. I am lonely for some 
expression of it on your part. Annice is my friend, 
but you are like my sister. Let the feeling between 
us be a sisterly one.” 

“ With all my heart, Jessie. I miss your confi- 
dence more than you miss mine, for I have no sister, 
nor even a special friend, unless you are that to me.” 

“ I will be that, and here is a kiss, my dear Ellen, 
to seal the contract.” 

Ellen was too glad and happy to reply, so what was 
to be such a long talk came to a speedy and happy 
end. 


Burial and Betrothal. 


31 


CHAPTER IV. 

BURIAL AND BETROTHAL. 

Summer had long passed, and the deep snows of 
winter covered the face of “ Bonnie Scotland.” But, 
pure and beautiful as the earth looked under its man- 
tle of snow, old Andrew Kenyon had not the heart to 
look forth upon the winter sunshine, for Kobert, his 
best-beloved son, the staff of his old age, lay upon his 
death-bed. No; he could not for a moment look 
away from God even to view his works, lest in that 
moment his faith should fail. His head is bowed like 
the bulrush, and his heart awaits the strength for 
which he has asked. He has the well-worn Bible 
upon his knee; through the dimness of tears his eyes 
have found one of the long-prized and precious prom- 
ises. His trembling finger rests upon it as he reads, 
“ Wait on the Lord ; be of good courage, ancf he shall 
strengthen thine heart : wait, I say, on the Lord.” 

The aged mother, too, leans hard upon God ; but 
Alice, the wfife, brave, kind-hearted Alice, clings to 
the promise concerning prayer for the sick, and she 
has sent for the elders of the church, that they may 
pray over him. Ellen, quiet in manner, though her 
heart is almost bursting with grief, takes every care 
from her mother, and the four lads do their duty at 
the barns and stables. But they are not the boister- 
ous, whistling lads of other days; they speak only 
when they must, unless they try to draw some shadow 


32 


Ebb and Flow. 


of a hope from one another. J essie alone can weep ; 
for her sorrow is not too deep for tears. Mr. Rob- 
inson, the well-beloved pastor, and the a elders of the 
kirk ” prayed with and for the dying man ; but the 
promise in this case must have a deeper and a wider 
signification : the saving must have been to life eter- 
nal, and the raising must have been at the resurrec- 
tion of the just ; for that evening, as the cold full 
moon was rising, Robert Kenyon slept the dreamless 
sleep of death. 

The poor wife’s grief was wild and stormy at first, • 
and the friends were almost frightened lest she 
would lose her reason. But the good pastor’s words 
allayed their fears. 

“ The storm will spend itself, and then there will 
be a calm,” he said ; and he was right. 

Next day, when all that remained of Robert 
Kenyon lay in the pleasant little parlor, the widow 
asked of Mr. Robinson, “ How is it that some lives 
are like a long, pleasant summer day, while other 
lives are like this day, short and wintry ? ” 

The answer came slowly, for the good man did not 
wish to chide her, neither did he wish to contradict 
her when her heart was so sorely tried. So lie said : 

“ In our moments of sadness we feel that we shall 
always be sad, and not unfrequently we forget all our 
remaining blessings. God does not deal with his 
children as you say. No life is free from sorrow, no 
life is unmingled pain. Joys and griefs go and 
come and come and go. I have often likened these 
changes to the ebb and flow of the tide. My ministry 
gives me an insight into these things. Sometimes I 
am called to join a couple in the bonds of holy wed- 


Burial and Betrothal. 


33 


lock; then I see nothing but joy and gladness; but 
ere long I may be called to attend the funeral of one 
of them. Sometimes I lay my hand in baptism on 
an infant, and often I have to lay the wee thing away 
in the dark ground. O, it is true that the shadow of 
sorrow follows the sunlight of joy ! But blessed be 
our Master, for he has told us that we shall have trib- 
ulation, and he has added these helpful words, 4 Fear 
not.’ In his name I say to you to-day, Fear not! 
In heaven, if not before, you will know that your 
life has not had one trial too many.” 

All the household had been listening to his words, 
and all believed them. The aged pair whose labors 
were so nearly over heard therrf with joy, for were 
they not soon to enter into that blessed knowledge of 
which he spoke? To Alice, in her great trial, they 
came with peace and comfort, and she tried to believe 
that God orders our lives. But Jessie found herself 
somewhat startled as she followed out the train of 
thought suggested by Mr. Robinson’s words. 

“ Is no earthly joy unmixed with pain?” she asked 
herself. And her thoughts pierced the future, fear- 
ing evils that she would never meet and hoping for 
much that she would never enjoy. She lost some- 
thing that the pastor said, and she was brought back 
from her reverie by words that sounded like a rebuke : 

“ God knows what is best for us, and one by one 
the leaves of our lives will be turned for us like the 
fresh pages of an unread book. Not too much pain, 
not too much pleasure will be found there ; enough 
of the one to keep our hearts humble and obedient, 
enough of the other to keep them from faintness and 
depression.” 

3 


34 


Ebb and Flow. 


Old Andrew grasped his hand as he ceased speak- 
ing, and said, “ God bless you for those strong, help- 
ful words ; they hae done me good.” 

“ Ay, and they hae helped me too,” said the aged 
mother. Then turning to her on whom the loss fell 
most heavily she said, “ Can you na say the same, 
daughter Alice ? ” 

“ O, ay, mither ! The words are good and true, but 
dinna ask too much of . me just now, since he who has 
ever been a kind and loving husband lies cold in the 
embrace of death.” 

The aged woman answered, “ I willna ask too much 
of you, Alice ; ” and the minister’s voice added, “ Nei- 
ther will God, poor stricken one, and in his own good 
time he will give you comfort.” 

The funeral followed in due time, and two brothers 
of the deceased who rented a farm at a distance of 
twelve miles reached the house of mourning not long 
before the funeral. On account of the severity of the 
weather they did not bring their families with them, 
but they were accompanied by a stalwart young man, 
the son of a neighbor. And they had need of his 
strength and assistance, for more than once they were 
forced to alight and cut a road through the drifts. 

The funeral over, the brothers made preparations 
to return. When they were taking leave of their 
parents the mother said, “ See to it that you baitli 
come again soon, for it willna be long that we shall 
stay behind Robert, and we are fain to see mair of 
you than we have in the past.” 

“ Ay,” assented the father, “ your mither is right ; 
but a wee while mair and we maun say fareweel to 
all below the skies.” 


Burial and Betrothal. 


35 


It is very seldom that we associate any thing roman- 
tic with funeral occasions, and yet Roderick Wallace, 
the young stranger, left his heart with the pale, sor- 
rowful daughter in the Kenyon home. 

Winter slowly wore away in the farm-house under 
the mountain, for each day the strong man, the kind 
husband and father, was missed. And yet they were 
glad the winter lingered, for they dreaded to think of 
the spring-time when old age and inexperienced youth 
should undertake the management of the farm-work. 
Each heart yearned for John, but John could not 
come to them. Each member of the family was op- 
pressed with too much care, and no one saw that 
Providence was opening a new channel through which 
they could be helped. 

One day toward spring the carrier brought a letter 
to Ellen. She read it through with a flushed counte- 
nance and then handed it to her mother. Alice Ken- 
yon read it carefully ; some portions she read a second 
time, then she looked at her daughter and said, 
“ Weel, what do you think o’ it ? ” 

Ellen answered the question by another : “ What do 
you think, mitlier?” 

“I think he appears to be an honorable young 
man, and if you think you can give him the affection 
needful to such an alliance let him come. Any way, 
it would be wise to become acquainted with him. You 
see your uncles recommend him, and say he has siller 
and no end of gear. You mind he is a weel-favored 
and right manly person.” 

Ellen was silent, though her mother made a short 
pause between each sentence, hoping to win some ex- 
pression from her daughter. At length she continued : 


36 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ You surely have taken no dislike to him, Ellen, 
the wee bit you saw of him upon the funeral day ? ” 

“ No, inither, no dislike. But he did follow me 
with his e’en more than seemed meet at such a time, 
and for a stranger forbye.” 

The mother smiled as she said, “ I doubt if you can 
lay that charge against him with that letter before 
you. You see he pleads guilty of the verra thing you 
speak of. Read the part of the letter that refers 
to it. 

“‘ After I returned home I was conscious that I 
had noticed you too closely, and I feared lest I might 
have given offense. I beg you to understand me bet- 
ter. I felt drawn to you at once ; I thought it was 
sympathy, but I have since come to know that it was 
love.’ ” 

“Well,” said the mother. 

“Well,” said Ellen. 

“ Then he may come, and you will meet him with 
good-will ? ” 

“ Ay,” replied Ellen, “ with right good-will ; for 
the manner of his letter has quite won me to him.” 

“ That is weel, and spoken like a wise lassie, though 
I don’t know whatever I shall do without you, my 
good daughter.” 

“ I willna leave you in your sorrow unless you think 
I ought.” 

“ I ken that, but you canna give up ilka thing for 
liame, lass. The time may come when you can do 
mair for me in your own liame than by staying here 
wi’ me. I do not ken how it will gang wi’ us, or 
how long your grandfather and the laddies will be 
able to manage so as to lease this place. Perhaps 


Burial and Betrothal. 37 

they canna succeed at all, and we will have to gie 
it up.” 

“ Give up this home, mither ? ” 

“ Ay, no one kens what we may have to do. Yet 
for a 5 that I wouldna meddle with your happiness to 
shield mysel’ from trials and privations. So if you 
dinna love this Roderick say him nay.” 

But Ellen did not say him nay. She felt perfectly 
satisfied with this opportunity, and as Roderick Wal- 
lace was in easy circumstances and ready to take a 
wife at any time the courtship was a short one. 

Jessie rejoiced at the good fortune of her cousin, 
though she thought there was too little romance in 
the affair. It was far too prosy for her. She loved 
the waiting-time that must elapse before she and 
Evan would marry. She loved to watch for the 
bulky letters that were mailed at different ports. 

Annice and Gilmore were to be married in the 
early summer-time, but Jessie could not hope to see 
her lover until the heather had purpled, and then 
there would likely be another year of waiting. She 
resolved to fill Ellen’s place to the best of her ability, 
and to comfort her grandparents, now grown very 
old. 

Ellen went to her new home, and the old people 
missed her, but in their hearts they knew that they 
would miss Jeannie’s lass far more, though they wisely 
forbore saying so. 

As the season advanced Annice Robinson began to 
make preparations for her marriage, and Jessie was 
often called in for a consultation on some important 
matter. As Jessie had lived in the city Annice and 
Ellen always regarded her as an authority on matters 


38 


Ebb and Flow. 


of propriety, and always seemed to think of her as 
superior to themselves. And perhaps they were right, 
for dark-eyed, brilliant Jessie had a style particularly 
her own. While Annice was as sweet as a flower, 
and Ellen was both good and bonnie, as every one 
granted, there was a charm about Jessie’s dress and 
manner that seemed wanting in the others. 


The New Home. 


39 


CHAPTER V. 

THE NEW HOME. 

Leaving Annice and Jessie for the present, we will 
look in upon Ellen in her new home, whither she 
went early in the spring-time. Roderick Wallace 
owned the place to which he took his young wife. 
The house was by no means new, but it had a com- 
fortable, substantial look. It stood on an elevation, 
and commanded a view of the surrounding country. 
Behind the house was a fine grove, and further on 
was a range of hills that reminded Ellen of the famil- 
iar mountain in the rear of her old home. At the 
other side of the road that passed the house the land 
sloped abruptly and afforded a pasture for a number 
of sheep and sleek cattle. Ellen stdod at the door long 
enough to take in the quiet, peaceful scene. “It is 
bcnnie,” she said in comment, and then she passed 
within the open door and took upon herself the duties 
of housekeeper and mistress. Her husband expected 
to see her manifest considerable surprise at her new 
surroundings, but while she seemed pleased at all she 
saw she did not make any demonstration. Roderick 
did not understand her. He did not know that Ellen 
had already learned that “ a man’s life consisteth not 
in the abundance of things that he possesseth,” that her 
contented spirit needed but little to make her happy. 
When he questioned her she replied, “ I am pleased 
to be where it has pleased God to place me.” 


40 


Ebb and Flow. 


“Who has greater wisdom than that, and what 
husband lias better reason to hope for future happi- 
ness than I have?” said Roderick Wallace, as he 
fondly kissed her. 

As Ellen began, so she continued, and although 
Roderick brought her many presents with which the 
bonnie dress and scarf of her grandfather would ill 
compare she received them all with the same sweet 
humility. 

When she made her first visit home her mother 
said, “ God be thanked, Ellen, that prosperity liasna 
spoiled you.” 

Ellen smiled as she replied, “ I fear that I am faring 
far better than the rest of you. You look, mither, 
as if your life was too full of care. The sorrow and 
the care together are telling upon you.” 

“ She will have to come away and live with us, 
soon, I’m thinking,” said Roderick. 

“ I doubt if that can be done, but I thank you the 
same,” replied Alice Kenyon as she stopped her work 
to wipe her heated face, for it was midsummer. 

Her son-in-law answered, “ Hot just now, perhaps, 
but after Miss Jessie is married and the old people 
are away you and the boys will come to us. I sup- 
pose it would break their good old hearts if they 
could not end their days here.” 

“ I suppose it would, amaist,” said the widow, and 
then she turned again to her work. 

Ellen and Roderick walked over the farm, and she 
more than once remarked, “ It is easy to see that fa- 
ther’s head is down. The poor lads ken little about 
farming, and grandfather is so feeble.” 

“ He is not as feeble as your grandinitlier, Ellen.” 


The New Home. 


41 


“ Think you that ? ” 

“Ay, you may just prepare yoursel’ to hear bad 
news of her at any time.” 

“ Poor grandmither, lier day has been a long one,” 
said Ellen, tenderly. 

“ How long? ” 

“ Eighty years. She is a bit older than grandfa- 
ther.” 

“ Weel, she willna see another year, and her gude- 
mon willna stay long behind her. The family will 
have to come to us before long. We have room 
enough for all, and work for the laddies if they have 
a mind to work for us ; otherwise they will be free to 
come and go.” 

Jessie was at the manse when Ellen arrived, but she 
returned before the latter came in from her walk over 
the farm. The cousins greeted each other warmly, 
and Jessie asked, “ What did you think when you 
found that I was gone to see Annice ? — that I had a 
queer way of filling your place ? I go there very 
often now, for her marriage is to take place very 
soon. But I am good for something, here, too, am I 
not, Aunt Alice ? ” 

“Ay, my bairn, that you are. You are good for 
so muckle that I hope your sweetheart willna take it 
into his head to marry for a twelvemonth at least.” 

Jessie laughed a little, blushed a good deal, but said 
nothing. 

“How is that, Jessie?” asked Ellen. 

“ I am afraid I will be away before half a twelve- 
month,” she replied, slowly. 

“You ha vena told me a word of this, lass,” said 
Mrs. Kenyon, looking somewhat hurt. 


42 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ It was only this morning that I received the letter 
that said so much as that. I was wondering how I 
could bring myself to tell you, and you have ques- 
tioned it out of me.” 

“Weel, when we have gi’en up a’ that we can 
gi’e, and parted wi’ a’ we liae, we can lose na mair,” 
said Mrs. Kenyon, a little bitterly. 

“ You havena lost more than you have left, have 
you, mither ? ” asked Ellen. “ And you ken that it 
is God's right to take all an’ it please him.” 

“ Ay, I ken it, and I maunna speak such words. 
But only this morn I have seen that your grand mither 
is fast failing, and how can I tell the old gentleman 
that he is going to lose his Annie ? For that is what 
he aye calls her now. They are amaist like two 
lovers of late ; it is Annie and Andrew the whole 
time with them. More than once I have gone away 
to greet, for I think there maun be a change coming. 
The twa are going together where they will grow 
old na mair, and I will e’en tread this lanely world 
wi’out Robert, wi’out the auld folk, wi’out John, 
wi’out ElFn, wi’out Jessie. I and my poor laddies 
will go on together, unless it please God to take them 
from me as week But they will go, they will go to 
homes of their ain, though may be one of them will 
stay with me as Robert did with the auld folk. Weel, 
weel, a’ that is wi’ the Lord,” she said, rising sud- 
denly and going about her work again. 

“ That is spoken like my ain mither,” said Ellen ; 
and then she added, u You maunna forget that our 
house is your home whenever you can come to it.” 

After seeing their mother cheerful again Ellen 
and Roderick left her and Jessie preparing dinner, 


The New Home. 


43 


and went to the room occupied by their grandparents. 
They had not before noticed the touching tenderness 
between the old people, but now they noticed it in 
every word and look that passed between them. 

“It is just beautiful.” remarked Ellen, aside, to her 
husband. 

“ So it is,” he answered. “ If this is childishness 
I have no dread of it.” 

At dinner Alice Kenyon was as cheerful and self- 
controlled as usual, and Ellen knew that she had given 
way because the news that Jessie would soon leave 
her followed so shortly upon her apprehensions of an- 
other separation. After the meal Ellen had a long 
talk with her mother, in which she told her much 
about her new home, the stores laid up by its former 
mistress, Roderick’s mother, and ended by saying that 
she thought Roderick the best man in the world. 

“ Weel, that is comfort, a great comfort,” said Mrs. 
Kenyon ; but she heaved a little sigh. 

The daughter’s quick ears caught it, and she asked, 
“ Do you miss me, mitlier, dear ? ” 

“ Whiles, but dinna think of me. If you had bided 
wi’ me and let such a rare chance slip you wouldna 
soon hae another such. I doubt if a lassie ever has 
more than one good chance.” 

“Think you that, mitlier?” 

“ Ay, I am amaist sure of it. It looks but reason- 
able to believe that such things are not altogether 
happenings, if so we maun be discreet and not turn 
away from the right chance.” 

The pleasant visit came to an end all too soon, for 
the sun’s heat had. begun to abate, and Ellen and her 
husband knew that it was time for them to return 


44 


Ebb and Flow. 


home. Roderick was much pleased with his wife’s 
people. Particularly did his mind dwell upon the ten- 
derness between the old couple, who had spent nearly 
sixty years of life together and were yet so necessary 
to each other. 

“ It is a long way that they have come together, 
Ellen,” he said. “ Their affection maun have been 
both strong and lasting. May ours be such ! ” 


Once More the Ebb. 


45 


CHAPTER VI. 

ONCE MORE THE EBB. 

Less than a month after this visit Ellen and her 
uncles were summoned to attend the funeral of the 
aged grandmother. It was a long ride, and Ellen and 
Roderick set out very early. The stars were still shin- 
ing, and except the clarion call of some barn-fowl 
there was no sign of life about the homes of their 
neighbors. But soon long lines of light streaked the 
east, and these spread and reddened till the whole sky 
was aglow and the soft light of a summer morning 
stole over the landscape ; the birds twittered on the 
branches, and gentle winds waved the ripening grain. 
But the travelers were still silent, no matter what 
they may have felt of the beauty of the morning. It 
is strange what a hush death lays upon the lips of 
the living. We think, think, think, but we do not 
care to speak. Some sympathy with the white, dead 
lips seals our warm ones. Some indefinable spell is on 
ns, and we feel that even to smile is to mock those 
from whose face the smile has faded. 

Long before they reached the bereaved home they 
were overtaken by Ellen’s uncles, and they drove on in 
company. At last the twelve long miles were passed, 
and the home of Ellen’s childhood came in sight. Then 
she spoke, saying, “ One would almost know that death 
was there from the looks of the house.” 

Ellen’s brothers came and led away their horses, and 


46 


Ebb and Flow. 


the friends went within the house where death had 
come. Ellen kissed her mother, Roderick shook 
hands all around, and then all sought the aged grand- 
father. He rose and staggered toward his two sons 
and gave a hand to each. 

“ O, my sons, and you, my daughters, and you, my 
grandbairns, you find me sair smitten the day. Yea, 
I am smitten e’en doun to the ground. A storm of 
•sorrow has swept over me, a storm of desolation and 
loneliness. Natheless, my help is in Him who maketh 
the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.” 

Having sent forth this wail, and also called to mind 
his consolation, he spoke, saying, u Come awa’ ben, 
and look upon her.” 

He led the way, and all stood around the cold, still 
form. Ellen wept, for she had li ved with her grand- 
mother since her earliest recollection, and the lips that 
had so often sent forth the words, “ Ellen, you are a 
gude bairn,” would never speak to her again. Her 
tears were natural, but they were not bitter tears. 

With the two strong men beside her, her uncles, it 
was different. A few irrepressible tears filled their 
eyes, and sighs of regret followed. Ah, our late re- 
pentance! Ah, unavailing sorrow! What excuses 
could they frame to cover their neglect? Why had 
they not heeded that last invitation : “ See to it that 
you baith come again soon, for it willna be long that 
we shall stay behind Robert, and we are fain to see 
mair o’ you than we hae in the past.” What did 
those last words mean but that the sons were too taken 
up with the love of gain and with their worldly affairs 
to spare the time to visit their old parents ? And now 
one of them was gone. 


Once More the Ebb. 


47 


“You do weel to sorrow for her, for it is a loss 
that you canna repair,” said the weak, husky voice of 
the aged father; then he settled down into his chair 
and was silent. 

One by one the others slipped from the room and 
left the father alone with his sons, and the three were 
almost as silent as the dead. We can live much of 
our lives over in a very short time, and these sad sons 
saw ; many a former scene pass before them. Many 
proofs of the love and faithfulness of the dead mother 
were ranged side by side with proofs of their own 
neglect. 

Ten o’clock was the hour fixed for the funeral, and 
the last preparations were being made under the man- 
agement of Jessie, and her aunt Alice more than once 
remarked that Jessie was worth her weight in gold. 

Ellen, too, made herself very useful, and when she 
and: Jessie were alone for a few moments the latter 
found opportunity to say : 

“Well, Ellen, Annice is married and gone away to 
visit Mr. Gilmore’s family. Her marriage was very 
quiet, but scarcely as quiet as yours was or as mine 
will be. Are we not passing through great changes, 
dear Ellen ? ” 

“ Yes, Jessie. Marriages are always connected in 
our minds with merry-makings, but we have seen 
them attending the funerals of our dearest friends. 
Well, it gives us little chance to forget, even in our 
happiest moments, that this is a world of sorrows as 
w T ell as of joys.” 

“ Do you remember what Mr. Kobinson told Aunt 
Alice the time your father died ? He compared our 
joys and sorrows to the ebb and flow of the tide.” 


48 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ Yes, I remember it weel,” Ellen replied ; and then 
the cousins separated, for the friends and neighbors 
were pouring in and the funeral procession would 
soon be formed. 

After the funeral Jessie and Ellen were again 
alone, and Jessie spoke, saying : 

“ I expect to be married in September. Of course 
you will come over, Ellen, but it will be very quiet, 
on account of poor dear grandmother. Evan’s uncle 
from Perth will be present, but he brings no other 
guest. Annice and her husband will come, but there 
will be no other guests besides your family, and I feel 
the gathering will be almost as solemn as this one to- 
day. I cannot help a feeling of sadness whenever I 
think of it, and yet I must wed Evan. Can this feel- 
ing be a forerunner of any trouble that is to come 
to us ? ” 

“No, Jessie, I do not think so. More likely you 
are impressed by the sad events that have already 
taken place.” 

“ I hope you are right,” Jessie answered ; and then 
the two sought the other friends, and the conversa- 
tion became general. 

Alice Kenyon had spread her table a second time, 
that those who wished might eat, and that the friends 
from a distance might not ride away hungry. But as 
for herself, she wanted no food. Again she had 
stood at the grave’s mouth and beside the closed 
grave of her husband, and she felt weary and sick at 
soul. She almost longed for the time when she would 
be laid away to rest under the fresh, cool grass in the 
kirk-yard. 

Just at this moment her youngest boy plucked her 


Once More the Ebb. 49 

sleeve and whispered, “ Don’t, inither, don’t look so 
sad.” 

Alice Kenyon put np a thanksgiving that she was 
still with her children, and she said within herself, 
“ Not yet must I long for rest ; my work is not done.” 

Still, the day was a hard one, and although she 
pressed the others to partake of the food she had pre- 
pared she took nothing herself. 

Ellen noticed how worn she looked, and she urged, 
“ Mi ther, take some food yoursel’, or you will be sick.” 
And as she was leaving her she said again, “ Mither, 
do take care of yoursel’ ; you look amaist ill now.” 

Yery tender were the farewells between Andrew 
Kenyon and his sons, and Ellen left a warm kiss upon 
his withered cheek as she turned away from him. 

“Stop^a bit, Ellen, stop a bit,” he said. “You 
maun take as muckle as you gie.” Then he kissed 
her and said, “ God bless you, my bairn!” 

The last friend had gone away, and the inmates of 
the farm-house tried to resume their wonted duties. 
Alice Kenyon persuaded the lonely, weary old man 
to go early to rest, and Jessie tried to have her aunt 
do the same. But she resolutely refused to leave Jes- 
sie with all that was to be done. 

“ No, no, dearie, your will is good enough to do all, 
but you canna. Besides, we will need each other to- 
night, I’m thinking. Wherever I go the house seems 
to have a lonely sound, my ain footfall amaist startles 
me. I suppose it is because I am weary and a bit 
nervous to-night. To-morrow I willna mind to go 
and sit alone where the dear old lady slept her last 
sleep. God give her a part in the first resurrection 
over which the second death has no power ! ” 

4 


50 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER VII. 

UNDER A NEW ROOF. 

Jessie Laidlaw was married at the appointed time, 
and, like Ellen, went immediately to a home of her 
own ; but, unlike Ellen, Jessie began her married 
life in a pretty new cottage with a large garden at- 
tached. It was situated scarcely two miles from the 
Kenyon home, and very near the manse. Jessie was de- 
lighted with every thing around her, and there was but 
one drawback to her happiness — her husband must 
necessarily be away from home much of the time. 
She would not be alone, for she had secured an ex- 
cellent serving-maid named Aggie Simpson. Peter 
Morrison, who worked as gardener at the manse, was 
very glad to engage to cultivate the garden at the 
Raeburn cottage also. This was very convenient, for 
his little cot and plot of ground lay midway between 
the two places. Here he lived with his wife, Judith, 
and his young daughter, who had her mother’s name 
and was usually called Judy. Mrs. Raeburn knew 
these people very well; she had often seen them at 
church, and besides she and Annice had talked with 
old Peter as he worked in Mr. Robinson’s garden. 
She knew all her neighbors and trusted them, and 
she was so near her aunt’s house that she saw its in- 
mates very often. Even the mountain was not missed, 
for a high hill that seemed to be a continuation of 
it stood not far from her new home ; and certainly 


Under a New Hoof. 


51 


the little stream at the foot was the same, and its 
banks were adorned by the same bracken; and 
further up the hill grew the familiar gorse and 
bloomed the go wan and the heather. But all the 
pleasant reminders were not of the farm-house, for 
she had the furniture from her old home in England. 
Her eyes rested upon the objects that were familiar 
to her childhood ; here a chair, there a picture — 
there was something in every room to remind her of 
her early home. She seemed carried back to those 
sweet past years, and only the presence of her gentle 
mother was wanting to complete the scene. 

Jessie’s friend Annice had not yet left her father’s 
house ; but this could hardly be a cause of gladness, 
for she was detained by the poor health of her 
mother. It began to appear that the marriage at the 
manse would soon be followed by a death. But if 
care, love, and sympathy could have any power to 
prolong the life of the mistress of the manse she 
would have remained with her family and friends. 
Yet all these helps were unavailing; Mrs. Robinson 
sank down to the grave. 

It now became the pastor’s duty to comfort him- 
self with the truths he had so often spoken to his 
parishioners when they were under like affliction. 
But the poor, bereaved man found that it was an 
easier matter to preach submission to others than to 
practice it himself. He missed the pleasant face and 
sweet voice, and he was nearly overpowered by the 
thought that they were separated forever. Annice, 
too, must leave him to go to a home of her own. 
Still, he managed to keep her with him for several 
months, and when at last she left him his maiden 


52 


Ebb and Flow. 


sister, Catharine, came to take charge of the house. 
In many respects this woman had no superior, and 
well the grief-stricken brother knew that it was a 
merciful providence that granted him the help and 
companionship of this precious sister. And although 
he felt that a great deal had gone out more than 
usual, and tried to forget his own sorrows in trying to 
alleviate the sufferings of his flock, he often lin- 
gered in the homes of the poor, receiving their confi- 
dence, and in return giving advice and consolation out 
of his own rich experience. Never before had he 
been so well qualified to administor comfort to the 
sorrowing. “ All,’’ thought he, u did God see that 
this chastisement was necessary to enable me to feed 
my flock, to become a good, faithful shepherd to my 
sheep?” And it would indeed seem that this was 
the case, for more than one of the parishioners re- 
marked, “Our minister has grown very mindful of. 
his people.” 

He often found his way to Mrs. Raeburn’s cottage, 
for it was a pleasant place, and he rejoiced in the 
prosperity of his young friends. Besides, there he 
received many a helpful hint, though clothed in the 
homely phraseology of Aggie Simpson. Aggie was 
a rare, shrewd woman, and she was as good as she was 
shrewd, and it was no chance occurrence that sent her 
to the home of Jessie Raeburn. The time was com- 
ing when her strong hand and strong sense would be 
needed in the cottage. But we will not anticipate, 
we will not overshadow with coming events the sweet 
home we have pictured. 

New troubles gathered around Alice Kenyon, and 
only for a year and a half after the death of her 


Under a New Roof. 


53 


husband did she remain in her home. At the end of 
that time the prospects were so discouraging that she 
remembered Roderick’s invitation, and she began to 
look longingly toward Ellen’s home. But what was 
to be done with her father-in-law was a question that 
seemed to be hard to solve. “ It would be cruel to 
move the old gentleman from his home,” she said to 
herself a dozen times. But one day he found her 
in tears, and little by little she opened her mind to 
him. 

To her great surprise he said, u Weel, my daughter, 
do you think that I canna gie up the auld liame for 
the wee remnant of my days ? ” 

“ Could you, though ? But where would you like 
to bide in case we leave this place ?” 

“Why, wi’ Jeannie’s lass, of course. Next to 
yoursel’ 1 would choose to bide wi’ her, and I 
couldna think to burden Ellen’s husband with my 
infirmities. Jessie is alane maist o’ the time, and I 
fancy she might na feel averse to taking her grand- 
father in.” 

The aged man was right, for Jessie was very glad 
to have him with her. She missed him even more 
than she missed her aunt ; and for her aunt’s sake, 
whose courage seemed to be leaving her, she was 
glad that there was to be a change. 

Mrs. Raeburn was at the farm-house on the day 
that the Kenyons gave up possession of it. The farm 
had been leased by the family for many long years, 
and every spot was dear to all. Especially was this 
time of the boys. “ Poor boys ! ” said their mother, 
“ it comes hard upon them,” as she saw them move 
about sad-faced and absent-minded. 


54 


Ebb and Flow. 


It was all over at last, tlie good-byes were spoken, 
and Jessie turned toward her own home with her 
grandfather, while Alice Kenyon started upon her 
twelve-mile ride to Ellen’s home. She took with her 
the most of her household goods ; that was some con- 
solation to her. Then she felt that she was going to 
the best daughter in the world ; that was another com- 
fort ; and besides she knew that God was over all, 
and that was by far the greatest cause for hopefulness 
and trust. The road wound in and out among the 
hills, and it seemed almost endless, although in the 
earlier years of her married life she had come this 
way to visit her husband’s brothers. But within the last 
ten years a coldness had been growing between the 
families, partly because of the added cares of each and 
partly because the brothers were jealous of Robert as 
being the favorite son. All the way Widow Kenyon 
noted the improvements, and she found herself won- 
dering how Ellen’s home looked. The April day had 
nearly worn away when Roderick, who had himself 
come for one load of “ gear,” halted before his own 
gate. 

“ This, then, is Ellen’s place ; it will be right bonnie 
in summer-time,” said Mrs. Kenyon to Tom, her old- 
est son, who sat by her side in their own wagon. She 
had kept their own team, much to the delight of the 
boys, and now, when all else was strange, the horses 
seemed almost like one of themselves. The boys 
stopped to pat the necks of the animals even before 
they had seen their sister. 

Almost immediately Ellen appeared in the door- 
way and called, “ Come away, lads ; you must be both 
tired and hungry. Let some one else see to the 


Under a New Hoof. 


55 


beasts.” And as they entered the door, she said, 
“ Welcome home, welcome all ! ” 

Altogether it was much like a home-coming, and 
soon the whole family were seated around the table, 
doing justice to Ellen’s good cheer. 


56 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

JUDY MORRISON. 

Jessie Raeburn had occupied her new home rather 
more than a year when a little son came to gladden 
it. Perhaps this event caused the aged grandfather 
as much joy as any one else. He was fast merging 
into his second childhood, and the advent of an in- 
fant was very pleasing to him. He was never tired 
of talking about the “ wee hit man,” and he was never 
so happy as when he sat by the child’s cradle. 

Mrs. Raeburn now had quite a household about 
her, for even when her husband was absent it num- 
bered three, independent of good Aggie Simpson. 
Old Peter Morrison seemed almost to belong there, 
for he was so often in the garden and about the door. 
And Judy, too, light-hearted Judy, flitted about her 
father in the sunshine like a song-bird. Indeed, she 
did little more than a bird, for her duties within 
doors were very light, and Peter would let her do 
little about him but watch him as he worked. 

Peter Morrison had married Judith Mackey when 
both were well on in years, and this one daughter, their 
only child, was a very precious gift to them. It was 
with right good-will that the old man toiled early 
and late that his bonnie lass' might fare well while he 
lived, and that he might leave her a snug sum of 
money when he was no longer here to care for her. 
Judith entered heartily into his plans, yet she was one 


Judy Morrison. 


57 


of those Scotch mothers who without meaning to be 
austere believed that children, whether lads or lassies, 
should, be no idlers. But day after day passed, and 
Judy was seldom busy. “Whatever shall we do 
with that lass to gar her ken that this world isna a 
playground and her life isna a play-spell ? ” was a 
question that Judith often asked her husband. And 
his answer would be, “ You just leave the lassie alane 
for a bit,” or, “ Leave the lass go ; work and trouble 
will come to her soon enough. Dinna fret about her; 
she is nothing but a bairn yet.” 

And so it was that Judy Morrison was still idle 
and care free, though she was a tall girl. Mrs. Raeburn 
was very fond of the girl, and she often called to her 
to come in and sit awhile. Even old Andrew Kenyon 
enjoyed a talk with Judy, and she grew to be quite a 
favorite at the cottage. Only Aggie would shake 
her head and say, “ The lass is no longer a bairn, she 
should be at some kind of work.” But even while 
she said this she thought she would miss Judy’s gay 
laugh and bright smile that seemed to help them all. 
Her presence was a comfort to the mistress when the 
master was away. And Judy found much happiness 
in holding “ wee Mark,” Mrs. Raeburn’s little son. 
This same wee Mark was the only child in the imme- 
diate neighborhood, though little Tommy Burns, the 
child of a young shepherd, lived about a mile and a 
half below ; and down at the old Kenyon place, 
where Duncan McCabe now lived, was another infant 
son. Judy seldom saw these children, and always 
retained her preference for Mark Raeburn. She did 
not know — how could she? — that this same Tommy 
Burns would ever be any thing to her or hers ? 


58 


Ebb and Flow. 


One day it chanced that Lieutenant Raeburn came 
home unexpectedly and found only the grandfather 
and Aggie in the house. He learned that his wife 
had gone upon the hill-side for a ramble, and that J udy 
had gone with her to carry Mark, so that he, too, 
could have an “ airing.” He went to seek them, and 
when he tried to take Mark from Judy the child 
would not come to him, but clung to her neck with 
all the force he could put into his plump little arms. 

w Y ou wee rascal,” said his father, “ will you refuse 
to come to me and then hug a lassie right before my 
eyes ? ” 

Judy laughed and said, “ I trow he would hug lad 
or lass, sir, to keep away from you, he is that afraid 
of you.” 

Judy placed Mark upon her shoulder and went on 
before Mrs. Raeburn and her husband toward home. 

“Take care of his back, Judy,” said Lieutenant 
Raeburn; and then turning to his wife he said, “ What 
will become of yon lassie, think you?” 

“ I do not know,” Mrs. Raeburn replied ; “ I sup- 
pose she will wed some farmer lad when she is old 
enough. Why ? ” 

“ I’ll tell you why, since you ask. The lassie seems 
light-hearted ; but, mind you, she has a heart that can 
suffer keenly. She is so sheltered at home that if 
rough winds blow upon her, or if she falls into bad 
hands, she will be ill prepared to stand her trials.” 

Nothing more was said about Judy, and the hus- 
band and wife talked about matters that concerned 
their own interests. And it was not until long years 
after that Mrs. Raeburn recalled the words that had 
been spoken that afternoon. 


Judy Morrison. 


59 


As soon as Aggie knew that her master had re- 
turned she set herself to prepare the dishes that he 
relished, and the repast was nearly ready when he re- 
turned to the house. As he passed the kitchen door 
he said : 

“ Well, Aggie, I can tell by the odor your kitchen 
gives out that you have not forgotten my prefer- 
ences.” 

Aggie’s face took on a broad smile, for she was 
glad to know that her efforts to please were appre- 
ciated, and she arranged the table with even more 
than her usual care. It was a happy supper-time. 
Aggie’s cooking was very enjoyable, and the presence 
of the master of the house added much more to the 
pleasure of the meal. It was a pretty domestic scene. 
The room was tastefully furnished, and it had a very 
pleasant outlook. Then each face beamed with smiles ; 
but none was more smiling than old Andrew Ken- 
yon’s. 

“ Weel, Evan,” he said, “ it is a right pleasurable 
thing to hae you here again. We get along very 
comfortably alane, to be sure, but we miss you.” 

“ It gives one a pleasant feeling to know that he is 
missed, especially when he misses home as I do.” 

h That is the only thing in our lot that I would like 
to change,” spoke in Mrs. Raeburn. 

Her husband looked sadly at her as he answered, 
“ If I had dreamed that I would have a home like 
this, and a wife like you, Jessie, I would have fol- 
lowed some other profession.” 

This turn in the conversation threw a momentary 
sadness over the spirits of all. Perhaps each one 
thought of the terrible possibilities of his profession. 


60 


Ebb and Flow. 


But sad faces were just wliat Evan Raeburn could not 
bear to see, and he deftly turned the conversation into 
a more pleasing channel. 

It was long after supper, the dimness of the gloam- 
ing was fast creeping over the lovely landscape, and 
within the cottage the forms, but not the faces, of the 
family group were discernible. Old Andrew had been 
for some time revolving a question in his mind, and he 
thought this a good opportunity to ask it. So he 
said, “ Evan, do you ever see or hear any thing of 
John, my grandson, John Kenyon ? ” 

The old man knew wdiy John had left home, knew 
that for the love he bore Jessie he could not stay to see 
her the wife of another man. Though it was too dark 
to see Jessie’s face her husband was convinced that 
she gave a little start at the mention of John’s name. 

“ Poor Jessie ! ” he said, tenderly. 

“ No, not poor Jessie, but poor John,” she an- 
swered, quickly. 

Then Raeburn proceeded to answer the old man’s 
question : “ Ho, grandfather, I have not seen him, 
but I know the name of his vessel. Perhaps I shall 
run against him sometime; I hope so, for I liked him 
well — better than he liked me, I dare say«” 

“ Ay, John was a lad to be liked,” assented the 
grandfather. “ Had he bided at liame we needna have 
gi’en up the placo; ” and he finished with a sigh. 

Jessie heard the sigh, and she said, “Then I would 
not have you here with me, grandfather.” 

“ That is so, Jessie,” he answered ; and he seemed 
content that his lot had fallen with her. 

“ By the way, how are the Kenyons getting along ? ” 
asked Lieutenant Raeburn. 


Judy Morrison. 


61 


“ Very well, I think,” answered his wife. “ Ellen 
has a little daughter, I hear.” 

“ Well, that is nice, but not quite so nice as to have 
a little son,” Evan said, looking toward the cradle 
where Mark lay. 

At this juncture Aggie came in and gave the old 
gentleman his candle. Being thus reminded of his 
bed-time, he bade the other good-night and was soon 
sleeping as sweetly as a child. 


Ebb and Flow. 


62 


CHAPTER IX. 

NEWS OF JOHN. 

A whole year had elapsed since the conversation 
related in the last chapter. Now we have two events 
to relate, one of a joyful nature and easily told, being 
the birth of a second son to Evan and Jessie Raeburn. 
The other is mournful and needs more space, more 
delineation. Not only did Raeburn hope to run against 
John Kenyon, as he said, but he resolved if possible 
to seek him out. One day a sick man was put on 
board of his vessel, which was homeward bound, and 
that sick man was John Kenyon. John was in hope to 
reach home, and perhaps to recover, but the vessel 
was a long distance from the coast of Scotland, and 
the poor young man never made his port. He sank 
rapidly, and death claimed him, and then the waves 
covered him. The great ocean opened her bosom to 
take in another pale sleeper and to hold him until 
even the sea must give up her dead. During the 
sickness young Kenyon and Raeburn became fast 
friends. To John the latter seemed like a link with 
the past ; and much as he once avoided him he now 
regarded him as a relative as well as friend. No 
cousin could have been more tender and helpful than 
was Evan Raeburn. And no one could have more 
carefully guarded every word, every message, that the 
distant mother and other friends should lose nothing, 
than did this new cousin and once rival lover. 


News of John. 


63 


Raeburn knew bim as soon as lie saw him, and lie 
reached out his hand, calling him “ Cousin John.” 
John winced a little, but in a moment his ill humor 
vanished and he cordially extended his hand, calling 
Raeburn “ Cousin Evan.” The ice was now broken, 
and questions followed in quick succession from both 
until the sick man became weary to exhaustion. He 
wept over the death of his father and grandmother, 
and sighed that the old home would not be a shelter- 
ing-place for him in case he lived to meet it. He re- 
joiced that Ellen was well settled, and that the remain- 
ing members of the family were all well and happy. 

It was toward evening of the third day since the 
cousins had met when John began to suspect that 
death was right before him. Raeburn was sitting 
close beside him as usual, when John asked, “Cousin 
Raeburn, shall I die, think you ? ” 

The other’s voice was husky as he answered, 
“ My dear laddie, how should I know? I hope not ; 
that is all I can say.” 

“ But 4 what do you think ? Tell me.” 

“O, John ! you must not press me,” said Raeburn, 
bursting into tears. 

u That is enough ; your tears tell it all, Evan. Well, 
God is good to bring us together. It is a great com- 
fort to see you, and I know that it will comfort the 
dear ones at home to hear a message from John. And 
Evan,” he went on, lowering his voice almost to a 
whisper, “ tell them that I have learned to pray with 
the heart as well as the understanding. The promises 
of God are ‘ yea and amen* to me, and I dinna fear 
death, I dinna fear a watery grave. I know that it is 
not chance that takes me away, for I have learned 


64 


Ebb and Flow. 


that behind all the seeming happenings of our lives 
lies the firm hand of Almighty God, that his grip is 
upon every thing that can come in the way of his 
children, and that nothing can come unless it is let ; 
moreover, he lets nothing unless it is for our good. 
So if death comes soon for me even that is best.” 

His voice had been kept at the same low pitch, 
until he spoke the words, “ Almighty God,” and Evan 
Raeburn felt that never before had the words held 
such a meaning for him. He had never felt so plainly 
that the firm hand, the “ grip ” of God, held back the 
evils that threaten his own children. In spite of his 
efforts at self-control he wept ; for he felt that death 
would soon silence that voice. Already it seemed like 
that of one who was speaking his last words, and 
wished them to have no uncertain sound. And they 
rang in his ears long after he who spoke them slept to 
wake no more. 

There were other talks following this one, and 
there were messages from the sick man to all who 
were dear to him. 

“ Tell Jessie that I loved her to the end, but since 
that greater love crept into my soul I have loved her 
only as a sister.” 

His last words were, “ God bless you, Evan, and 
bless all the dear ones through the riches of grace that 
are in Christ Jesus.” 

u That is a fitting name to be on one’s lips when he 
takes the leap into the other world,” said an old sailor 
who was standing near. 

“ Ay,” responded Raeburn ; “ let me die with it 
upon my lips ! ” 

Yery gently they lowered all that was left of John 


News of John. 


65 


Kenyon, and as gently lie sank into the great deep, 
while Raeburn's tears fell thick and fast as he watched 
the waves draw in the last of his friend. 

A week later Lieutenant Raeburn crossed his own 
threshold, and the sad story was told to Jessie and her 
grandfather. This was no easy task, for she wept like 
a child, and the dim eyes of the old man shed the first 
tears that had filled them since he lost his Annie. 

But it was far harder to go to Roderick Wallace’s 
home and tell the six people so nearly related to the 
dead man that he was gone and that the wild, deep 
waters of the sea covered him. He tried to break the 
news gently, guardedly ; but ere it was told the poor 
mother guessed the worst and cried : 

“ Alack ! alack ! Is the mercy of God clean gone 
forever ? Will he be favorable no more ? ” 

“Ay, he will; he has been ; for while the body of 
your son lies in the ocean his spirit is happy with 
God.” 

“How ken you that?” the mother asked, sharply. 

“ I have it from himself,” Evan replied. He then 
related all that has already been told in these pages. 
Alice Kenyon ceased her weeping ; she almost smiled 
as she heard his dying words. 

“ O, the tender mercies of our God ! I grudge not 
my son to the cold waves since he sleeps in Jesus ; 
‘ for they that sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.’ 
You mind, Ellen, the Book says that? ” 

“Ay, mither, I mind,” Ellen answered, in a choking 
voice. 

The mother’s growing composure spread among the 
children, and soon every eye was dried and every sob 
hushed. 

$ 


66 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ That is weel, my bairns ; weep no more for re- 
joicing that yonr brother has escaped death and en- 
tered into life eternal. We shall see him again if we 
die as weel.” 

Jessie had accompanied her husband in hope that 
her presence might help to soften the sorrow of her 
aunt and cousins, and her heart had been uplifted to 
God that he himself would be present and comfort 
the bereaved family. When she saw how quickly 
their grief was subdued she felt that her prayer had 
been answered. Ellen set about preparing dinner, and 
the quiet talk flowed on, while less than two hours be- 
fore the same room had resounded with noisy grief. 

“Never have I seen anything like the comfort 
John’s message brought,” said Jessie to her husband 
as they drove away. 


An Auld Man Slips Away. 


67 


CHAPTER X. 

AN AULD MAN SLIPS AWAY. 

Old Andrew Kenyon had long been waiting for 
his summons, not that he was weary of his surround- 
ings, but he was weary of himself. He longed to 
drop the sins, the infirmities of nature, and to be 
clothed entirely with the righteousness of Christ ; be- 
sides, he longed to meet the friends on the other side. 

“You maunna blame me, Jessie, that I liae long- 
ings for the other world,” he said one mild spring 
morning as the two stood together at the grave of 
his wife. “ You make me right welcome in your bon- 
nie hame ; God bless you for that ! But there is a 
bonnier hame than yours, Jessie, awaiting me up yon- 
der ; nor will the welcome be wanting.” 

“ Ay, grandfather, that is as yon say ; but don’t you 
think that your Jeannie’s lass will miss the compan- 
ionship that she has had so long with you ? ” 

“Likely you will, Jessie; but you have your twa 
bright, bonnie bairns, and you have as good a husband 
as ane could wish ; besides, you have Aggie, and she 
isna to be forgotten when you recount your blessings. 
You can weel afford to let the auld man slip awa’ to 
his rest.” 

It is hardly to be supposed that old Andrew knew 
how correctly he was describing his death-scene — how 
the words “slip awa’ to his rest ” told how he would 
leave the world. 


68 


Ebb and Flow. 


It was scarcely a week after Mrs. Raeburn had 
taken him to the grave of his wife that lie said, “ I 
doubt, Jessie, if I feel as well as usual the morn.” 

She watched him with great tenderness, and tried to 
find out what his ailment was, but he answered, “ O, 
it is naething, naething. I hae na pain to speak o’. I 
hae na pain, only a gone feeling. I believe I am 
just worn awa’, just gi’en out a’ together; ay, I feel 
the blindness o’ death. Jessie, come for your grand- 
father’s blessing.” 

She came and knelt beside his chair; his feeble 
hand sought her head, and then he said, “ The God o’ 
Jacob defend thee, the God o’ the covenant bless thee 
and keep thee, and bless thy children after thee ; ay, 
and thy children’s children.” 

The hand still rested upon her head, but the hand 
was lifeless, for Andrew Kenyon was dead. 

Mrs. Raeburn felt considerably shocked at the sud- 
denness of the event, and there was no one in the 
house with her but Aggie. She came at the first call, 
and when she saw what had happened she said, “ Weel, 
isna that a sweet and a blessed way to be called hame !” 

The words comforted her mistress, and she began to 
take a different view of the event. 

“ Ay, Aggie,” she answered, “ he has passed through 
all the ills that can touch him ; hereafter he will know 
only joy and happiness.” 

Again the mourning friends crossed the distance 
that lay between the homes of Ellen and Jessie. This 
time there were many to come, for Alice Kenyon and 
her sons were among the number. The cottage was 
filled with neighbors who came to pay this last token 
of respect for the dead. 


An Auld Man Slips Away. 69 

Judy took Mark and Baby Walter over to Peter’s 
cot that Mrs. Baeburn might have a better opportu- 
nity to care for her friends. Judith helped Aggie in 
the kitchen, and Peter led away the horses and fed 
them. After both man and beast were refreshed and 
rested the procession, headed by good Mr. Robinson, 
wended its way to the little kirk. 

There was almost a ring of gladness in the pastor’s 
voice as he read his text : “ Mark the perfect man, and 
behold the upright : for the end of that man is peace.” 

A quiet sadness had rested upon the faces of all the 
mourners, and now not a few eyes gleamed with satis- 
faction that the selection was appropriate to their lost 
relative ; for truly his end had been peace. Perhaps 
few people left that church without realizing how de- 
sirable was that peace, so forcibly and plainly did the 
pastor preach. And many a soul struggling in the 
fierce battle of life >vas strengthened by looking to- 
ward that peaceful end. The bereaved ones had but 
one comforting thought : u If we live like him we 
shall go to him and live beyond the trying scenes of 
this life.” In the tenderness that filled their souls as 
they laid their dead away they thought him a worthy 
pattern to follow. But could he have spoken to them 
he would have said, “Follow nane but Christ, the 
only perfect pattern.” 

The sun was sinking low when Judy brought the 
Raeburn children home. u It will do Mrs. Raeburn 
no hurt to rest liersel’ a bit after such a day,” was the 
girl’s comment, and she fed the children with care, 
giving each one what she considered proper for him. 
“ I maunna make them sick, I maunna kill them with 
kindness,” she said. 


70 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ You have done me a great kindness, Judy,” said 
Mrs. Raeburn, as she took little Walter in her arms. 

“You are mair than welcome,” Judy replied; and 
then she went into the kitchen to see if Aggie did 
not need some help. Aggie did need help, and she 
praised Judy for her thoughtfulness and willingness 
to oblige. Already the young girl was in favor with 
both mistress and maid, and as they watched her as 
she walked away Mrs. Raeburn said to Aggie, “ I 
hope if Judy weds she will get a good husband.” 

The thought of a husband had never occurred to 
Judy’s mind, unless it was as something away in the 
dim future. She was happy at home with her father 
and mother, with an occasional visit at the manse, 
where she was always welcome, and with oft-repeated 
visits to see the “ Raeburn laddies,” where she was 
more than welcome. 

But a lonely old heart had been watching Judy’s 
bright face and longing for such a one in his home, 
and the more he thought about it the more he deter- 
mined to offer himself to her in marriage. He spoke 
first to her father, and old Peter was well pleased, as 
the suitor had “ plenty of gear.” If there had been 
any thing romantic in his nature it had long since 
died out. He brought Abel Macintosh within the 
cottage and then called Judy home from Mrs. Rae- 
burn’s, where she was having a frolic with the chil- 
dren. Fresh from such a childish pastime she was 
brought to confront old Abel and hear his strange 
proposal. At first she was incredulous and thought 
the whole matter a joke. When the truth began to 
dawn upon her her lips quivered, and she answered, 
“ I canna, indeed I canna.” 


An Auld Man Slips Away. 71 

“ Weel, Abel, leave the matter alane for a wee ; she 
will amaist likely change her mind. Yon ken your- 
seP that the offer came kind o’ sudden upon the 
lassie,” said Peter. 

u Ay, to be sure it did,” returned Abel ; and he 
took his leave, saying he would come again in a fort- 
night. 

No sooner had he gone beyond hearing than Judy 
buried her face in her mother’s lap and sobbed out, 

“ It will be the old story over again.” 

“ What story ? ” inquired her mother. 

“ The story of ‘ Auld Robin Gray,’ ” she replied. 

“ My poor lassie,” said the mother, who was more 
than half convinced that the child was being annoyed, 
“you have nobody whom you care for, as Robin’s 
wife had ? You have no Jamie ? ” 

At the mention of the name Judy’s cheek flushed a 
little, though she was silent, and the mother repeated 
the question. 

“ Say, lassie, you have no sweetheart, surely ? 
Speak, Judy.” 

“ No, I have no sweetheart, and until old Abel 
offered himsel’ to me I didna ken that I cared for 
one lad above another. Now I know that there is a 
soft spot in my heart for a lad who speaks to me ilna 
Sunday at the kirk.” 

You may readily suppose that Judith’s eyes were 
open the next Sabbatli morning, and she saw Jamie 
Taylor, a “ neebor lad,” loitering outside the church 
door. He bowed and smiled as Judy passed in, then 
followed almost immediately. Judith Morrison was 
inattentive that day. She did not even remember 
where the text was, a thing that she never failed to 


72 


Ebb and Flow. 


require of her daughter. For this Jamie was not at 
all to her liking, and she knew that her husband really 
disliked him. Knowing this, she was afraid that he 
would urge Judy to marry Abel Macintosh. 

“ Weel, Judy, I am sair perplexed,” she said to her 
daughter that afternoon. “I willna consent, much 
less will your father, that you should marry Jamie 
Taylor.” 

“ I didna say that I want to wed him. Cauld not 
I bide with you and father, I, who am the only bairn 
you have in the wide world ? ” 

“ Ay, I should think sae ; but your father is taken 
up with Abel’s siller. He says it is no ordinary 
chance for a lassie.” 

“ I should say it wasna, though it might be a good 
chance for a lassie’s grandmother,” replied quick- 
witted Judy, laughing for the first time since the sub- 
ject had been broached. 

“How, lassie, you have gone as far to the other 
side. Abel is but forty-five.” 

“ And I am but seventeen ; he is twice my age 
and eleven years over. I doubt if I want siller if I 
maun take gray hairs with it.” 

“You may be right, Judy.” 

This admission did Judy much good, and she went 
to her mother, saying, “ You must let your Judy give 
you one kiss for those words, mitlier.” 

“ You may give me as mony as you like,” replied 
the mother, with a tear in her eye. 

Judy kept -watch for Abel, for she wished to avoid 
him. She saw him coming and slipped out of the 
back door ; then she broke into a laugh and ran over 
to the Raeburn cottage. But, fearing that her lather 


An Auld Man Slips Away. 


73 


would send there for her, she changed her course and 
never stopped running till she was back of the hill. 
For long hours she loitered among the shady trees, 
and when she returned she brought the cow from the 
pasture-lands, for she was warned by the sun that it 
was nearly milking-time. 

“You took an early start for the coo the day,” 
said Judith, scarcely suppressing a smile. 

“Weel, I had nothing else to do, and I thought I 
might as weel go.” 

“ Weel, yon hae been wanted. Abel has been here 
again,” said Peter. 

“Father, I would by far rather lie in the grave 
than wed old Abel. Please, father, dinna urge me 
further,” Judy pleaded. 

Peter looked undecided, but Judith spoke, “Dinna, 
Peter, dinna make a lass of seventeen weary for the 
grave.” 

“ Go your ways, then, and leave me to myseP ; 
but I am a disappointed man.” 


u 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE DOMINIE’S SISTER. 

Miss Catharine Robinson soon grew in tlie estima- 
tion of the people of tlie parish, and, though they 
missed the gentle, friendly wife of their pastor, they 
marveled at the judgment of his sister, whicli to them 
seemed wonderful. At first they wondered what the 
minister would do without his wife, but they soon 
said, “ Our minister will do very weel, after all ; 
he is in good hands.” And not only did Catharine 
Robinson help and comfort her brother, she was 
as ready to assist his people. Her piety and strength 
of character made her very useful in homes of sorrow. 

Hot long after she came to the manse Willie Burns, 
the young shepherd before mentioned, died, leaving 
a disconsolate widow with the little Tommy. Poor 
Widow Burns! She had thought herself strong, but 
not now was she strong. She, too, had tended sheep 
upon the hill-side through long and weary days. But 
she did not think them long, and she was as blithe as 
the birds above her head. Her heart was full of love 
as she sang, 

“ I’m ower young to marry yet.” 

But as often as Willie heard her sing it he stoutly 
disputed the truth of it, and before long she became 
his wife. They were very happy, and they did not 
think they could be happier till little Tommy was 


The Dominie’s Sister. 


75 


born. In their fond eyes he was perfection, and they 
felt that there was nothing to be desired. They had 
good health and they were rich in their love for their 
child and each other. But death does not pause to 
ask to whom life is sweet, and Willie Burns was taken 
from his family. Mr. Robinson buried the husband, 
and he tried to comfort the widow, but he could say 
nothing to console her. He left her little cot saying 
to himself : “ Poor woman ! she wants the help that the 
Saviour alone can give, but she will not look to him. 
It may be that Catharine or Mrs. Raeburn can find a 
w’ay to her heart. Which one shall I send ? Mrs. 
Raeburn is a wife — she may be better fitted to go; 
but she has had no such sorrow, and Mrs. Burns will 
tell her that she knows nothing about it. It is true, 
and long may it be true ! yet Raeburn’s is a dangerous 
calling. I’ll send Catharine, then. She has a knowl- 
edge of human nature which will teach her what to 
say.” 

When he reached home he said : “ Catharine, you 
will confer a favor upon me if you will go to see 
Widow Burns. I can’t say any thing to help her, and 
I think it will take a woman to show her Him whose 
love is greater than woman’s.” 

“ I will go gladly, but I doubt my wisdom where 
yours fails.” 

She went early next morning, for the pastor had 
been haunted by the widow’s sorrow-stricken face, and 
he would hear of no delay. It was a lovely morning, 
and all the way Miss Robinson’s mind was occupied 
with thoughts of Him who maketh all things beau- 
tiful in their season. She found the widow seated 
outside the cottage-door looking away over the pasture- 


76 


Ebb and Flow. 


land where she had so often seen her husband moving 
about among the sheep. So intent was she that she 
did not notice the approach of her visitor till little 
Tommy, who was standing beside her, said, “ Mither, 
there’s a leddy.” The sad-eyed woman looked up, 
and then she arose and led the way into the cottage. 
Miss Robinson sat down and drew Tommy toward her. 
The child smiled in her face, and then he said, “ I wish 
mither would smile again. She just greets the hail 
time.” 

“ Poor child ! ” said Miss Robinson. 

The mother shot a glance of inquiry toward her 
visitor and asked, “ Have I wronged my bairn in 
that ? ” 

The other bowed her head, saying, “ You see he is 
hungry for a smile. You have wronged him without 
meaning it, my good woman. He misses his father’s 
smiles, and you should give him twice as many as be- 
fore, that his wee heart need not feel too much sor- 
row.” 

“ Alas ! I dinna feel to smile.” 

“That I can well believe, and yet you have this 
lovely bairn. Cannot you rouse yourself for his sake? 
Your grief is wearing you out, and yet it cannot call 
the dead back. Will it not be better to keep your 
health and also secure the happiness of your bairn ? ” 

She said nothing about God, for she felt that the 
poor woman was indulging hard thoughts of him, and 
she did not think that the time had come to speak. 

The widow said : “ I thought for sure when I saw 
you that you Had come to say that I maunna greet be- 
cause God had a right to take my husband from me. 
But you say I maunna greet because it makes mv woe 


The Dominie’s JSistek. 77 

laddie sad. I didna think you would mind the lad 
first.” 

Evidently she had hardened herself, but Miss Rob- 
inson had touched a vulnerable spot. Her sad face 
began to lighten, and the wise counsel next given was : 

“Now, Mrs. Burns, make yourself ready to go 
home with me for a few days. I am lonely and you 
are lonely, and this delicious morning invites you to 
walk out. Come, we will give your pastor a pleasant 
surprise.” 

Mrs. Burns slowly shook her head. Tommy watched 
her, and a disappointed look crept into his face. “ Do 
gang, mither,” he pleaded. 

“ I dinna feel to gang, my bairn.” 

“Well, I dinna feel to stay,” he replied, quickly. 

Something like a smile crept over her face at this 
unexpected reply. Tommy clapped his little hands 
and said, “ She’ll gang ! she’ll gang ! ” 

There was no resisting him, and the three soon 
started for the manse. This proved to be the begin- 
ning of a long stay there, for Tommy was quite a 
lad when his mother returned to her cottage, and 
then she and Tommy took upon themselves the work 
that had belonged to the husband and father. Mean- 
while the poor widow had learned to trust the Lord, 
and she felt that she would never again be lonely since 
he was her portion forever. 

Catharine Robinson’s influence had reached many 
more. Mrs. Raeburn looked upon her as an elder 
sister, and never failed to receive comfort from her 
society. The pastor felt that his labors were light- 
ened by this good and wise sister, and the poor spoke 
her name with gratitude. 


78 


Ebb and Flow. 


There was one bereaved family that caused the 
brother and sister much solicitude, and they could only 
leave them with God. Death had taken away Duncan 
McCabe’s only son, and the parents felt that no sorrow 
was like their sorrow. Miss Robinson tried to soothe 
the mother with such words as these : “ Go right to your 
Father in heaven, and tell him that you cannot bear 
your sorrow alone ; tell him that you must have help. 
Trust him even as your own laddie trusted you. Still 
more and further can you trust him, because a mother 
may forget her child, yet will he not forget you.” 

Mrs. McCabe listened, but in a listless way, and 
Mr. Robinson vainly tried to point out to the father 
the consolations of God’s word. The poor man only 
shook his head, saying, “ I canna see it ; I canna see 
it. I am clean cast" down, for my lad is gone for 
whom I moiled and toiled.” 

“ Do you not know that there are other toilers who 
labor not for the meat that perisheth? Labor with 
them and you will not be disappointed. Then death 
itself can defeat none of your plans,” said Mr. Rob- 
inson. 

“ It is very weel for you to talk o’ such things, but 
for a simple man like mysel’ they are not satisfying. 
I maun be made over a’together before I can think 
with you in this matter.” 

“ That is just what it is,” said the pastor to his sister 
as they walked away. u He needs to be made over 
altogether. He has no spiritual discernment, and yet 
he thinks he is born into the kingdom of grace. How 
to deal with such people is more than I can tell. 
Well might the Saviour charge his servants to be ‘as 

wise as serpents and harmless as doves.’ ” 

/ 


The Dominie’s Sister. 


79 


When they arrived at home they found a letter 
from Annice awaiting them. This letter contained 
the news that she was the mother of a little son. 
Here, then, was something to divert their minds from 
the unpleasant impression of their visit, for the good 
minister could not rid himself of the feeling that he 
was a poor adviser in spiritual things. 

Now for a long time his mind was filled with 
thoughts of his grandson, and it was well that it was 
so. It is well to pause in our work to be glad and 
thankful ; well not to chafe and worry too much 
because we do not see the seed we have sown imme- 
diately springing up and taking root; well not to 
be too much cast down by our seeming failures, or 
too complacent when our labor is apparently blessed. 
After all, it only concerns us, to know whether we are 
faithful workers. The harvests are and must be with 
the Lord. 


80 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A REUNION AT THE MANSE. 

The time liad arrived for the annual visit of Annice 
Gilmore. But this summer there was a new interest 
in the expectations of the inmates of the manse. The 
little grandson, Lewis, was the theme of Mr. Robin- 
son’s conversation for days before the arrival, and 
Miss Robinson found herself often speaking of the 
child, not only to her brother, but also to Nannie Burns, 
the help in the kitchen. And Nannie had only one 
answer to give : “ Nae doubt he is a bonnie wee bairn, 
since he belongs to sweet Annice. I beg pardon, I 
mean Mrs. Gilmore.” Nannie’s mistake was a com- 
mon one, for the parishioners had not learned to say 
Mrs. Gilmore. “Sweet Annice” was much more 
natural to them, and in their eagerness to greet her 
they usually misnamed her. 

“ To-day Annice will be here with us,” Mr. Rob- 
inson said to his sister on the wished-for morning. 

“ Ay, with the blessing of God attending on her ' 
journey she will soon be in her own home,” assented 
his sister. 

Breakfast was just over when Mr. Robinson began 
to make preparations to go to meet his daughter. 

“James, there is no need of haste,” his sister said, 
smiling at his eagerness. 

“I ken that,” he replied, “but it seems that I can’t 
wait.” 


A Reunion at the Manse. 


81 


To tell the truth, she was about as impatient as he 
was, and the hours dragged all day. At last the time 
came when she might reasonably expect her niece, and 
she took up her station at the window. And sure 
enough, there was their own little pony making 
straight and fast for home, and she could easily see 
that there were two people sitting in the carriage. A 
few moments more, and she kissed Annice and took 
the infant in her arms. 

“ It is just the image of yourself, James,” she said, 
pleased that it was so. 

Annice had a great many questions to ask, and she 
inquired particularly about Mrs. Raeburn and the 
children. 

“We must see the three laddies together,” said the 
minister. 

“ Ay, that you will, and soon too, for Mrs. Raeburn 
will be here before night.” 

Miss Robinson’s prediction was fulfilled, for they 
were just partaking of an early supper when Jessie 
appeared, leading Mark and followed by Judy, who 
carried little Walter. 

But who can tell what was said between these two 
friends and fond mothers, what praise was bestowed, 
what comparisons were drawn, and what mutual good 
wishes passed between them ? Surely enough can be 
guessed of their conversation, and the reader can pict- 
ure the pleasant little visits and tea- drinkings in both 
houses during that summer. 

One afternoon during Annice’s visit her father came 
in with two items of news. He told of the birth of 
a daughter to Duncan McCabe, and then he went on 
to say that he had been asked to perform the mar- 
6 


82 


Ebb and Flow. 


riage ceremony between Judy Morrison and Jamie 
Taylor. 

“ It is with no willing consent of the lassie’s par- 
ents,” he said ; “ and I am sore displeased about the 
matter. Judy could and doubtless would do better if 
she would only wait.” 

Mrs. Raeburn was present, and she told all she 
knew about the affair with Abel Macintosh, which 
was new to the pastor. 

“ I do believe,” she said, “ that foolish move just 
hurried the lassie on for fear she would have to wed 
a man of her father’s choice.” 

Mr. Robinson was silent, though his thoughts were 
still engaged in the matter. After a little time he 
remarked : 

“ I do think we ought to try to dissuade Judy. 
She is such a happy, heedless girl that I doubt if she 
has given the subject any serious thought.” 

“ Judy cannot be serious two minutes at a time,” 
said Miss Robinson.' 

“ Ay, that is so ; but a bit of serious thinking at the 
beginning of life might save her a deal of sorrow be- 
fore life ends,” replied Mr. Robinson. 

“ No doubt it would be best in the long run,” 
said Mrs. Raeburn. 

“ But if she has pledged her word ? ” questioned 
Annice. 

“ She has not only pledged her word, but her par- 
ents have given a reluctant consent,” admitted the 
minister. 

“ Then I do not see what is to be done,” said his 
sister. 

“ O, I suppose I will have to marry them ; but I 


A Reunion at the Manse. 


83 


can tell you that the funerals of some of his people 

are far less sad to a minister than the marriage of 

© 

others. I cannot see why Peter should have at- 
tempted to press the lass to marry old Abel. He 
must have been more anxious to get rid of his one 
daughter than I was to get rid of mine,” was the con- 
clusion of Mr. Robinson. 

He looked at An nice, and a shade of sadness passed 
over his face that she belonged to another more than 
to him. Annice read his thought, and said : 

“ You have not yet learned to be glad that you are 
rid of me, father ? ” 

“Ho, nor I never shall be ; but I may be, and per- 
haps I am now, reconciled that your home is else- 
where, though I never can be glad.” 

Annice smiled on him half fondly, half sadly, as 
she answered : 

“We often give up one good for another in this 
life, and often the best good is sacrificed. But I hope 
and believe that I did not do that when I left you 
and this dear home.” 

“ I hope not, daughter. But what makes you speak 
like that ? I can’t say that I just like to hear it.” 

“ I had no special reason for speaking so, father ; 
but sometimes the untried future seems very dark and 
somber.” 

“I thought that Richard’s health was greatly im- 
proved.” 

“ So it is ; yet the apprehension I feel seems in 
some way to be connected with him. Hot that I see 
signs of early death, but I feel a dread hanging over 
me.” 

“ Don’t anticipate an evil day, Annice. Should it 


84 


Ebb and Flow. 


come to you the Power that upholds you now will 
uphold you then,” said her father. 

“My dear Annice,” remarked Mrs. Raeburn, “it is 
not well to fret about the future. When the weather 
is fair do not fail to enjoy it, because some time it 
may be foul.” 

Thus advised Mrs. Gilmore’s brow cleared, and she 
said, “ I know that you are both right, and I must not 
anticipate sorrow, but enjoy the blessings that God so 
liberally bestows upon me.” 


A Hard Winter. 


85 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A HARD WINTE R. 

Seven years have passed over our friends, and 
many changes have come to them. The little daugh- 
ter at Duncan McCabe’s had long ago been baptized 
Ellen, and was now known as bright little Kellie. 

Judy Morrison has long been Mrs. Jamie Taylor. 
She had buried two children, and the news of the 
birth of a third child, a little daughter, had just come 
in a letter to Peter. Accompanying the news was a 
request for a little money. “ Only a little would be 
such a help to your poor Judy,” she pleaded. 

Peter’s snug savings were nearly gone, but he could 
not deny his only child. Long and late did Peter and 
Judith talk on that evening, and they concluded that 
they must spare Judy five pounds more. 

“ O, that good-for-naught Jamie ! ” exclaimed old 
Peter, in a fit of impatience. 

“ Dinna,” remonstrated Judith. “She says he is 
far from week” 

“ How caq he hope to be weel, the drunken loon ? ” 
replied Peter, little appeased by his wife’s words. He 
soon broke out again : “Yonder sits Abel with mair 
siller than would keep three families. It was too bad 
of Judy to be so headstrong. Abel could have kept 
our lass as comfortable as Mrs. Raeburn is kept, and 
you know how comfortable she and her bairns are.” 

Mrs. Raeburn had now two more children, a little 


86 


Ebb and Flow. 


boy named Norman, and a daughter younger than 
Norman, whom she called Lilias. Peter saw that 
nothing was wanting to the happiness of this family, 
and he could not help coveting such comfort for 
Judy. Nor was Peter alone in thinking Mrs. Rae- 
burn more blessed than others. Even the pious, 
trusting Mr. Robinson sometimes contrasted her sit- 
uation with that of others apparently less favored. 
We may well say apparently, for who knows whether 
joy or sorrow will be considered as the greatest bless- 
ing when we look back on both from the eternal 
world ? Neither did this thought escape the good 
minister, but he was troubled for Annice. 

Mrs. Gilmore was now the mother of three chil- 
dren, another son whom she called Alfred, and a 
little daughter named Mary. The father was not 
troubled that her family was thus larger ; it was be- 
cause her husband was something of a spendthrift. 
Worse than this, the fear that Annice had that her 
husband would be cut off in early manhood was no 
longer a dim foreboding. It was all too easily seen, 
and his friends were wont to say, u Gilmore is going 
with consumption.” Annice had not yet been told 
this, but she saw it. Only Gilmore himself was blind 
to the fact. He hoped against hope, both in regard 
to his health and his financial affairs. He was always 
going to be better, always going to do* better. He 
possessed considerable property when he married, and 
with good management he need not have been in 
straitened circumstances. But the old saying, “ Come 
easy, go easy,” was verified in his case. One good 
quality he possessed, and that was perseverance. He 
attended to his business, which was that of a barrister, 


A Hard Winter. 


87 


and lie was often so absorbed that he neglected to 
take proper care of his health. Too close confinement 
to his office and a neglect of proper exercise aggra- 
vated his old complaint. 

Thus both Judy Taylor and Annice Gilmore had 
their troubles. With Judy both father and mother 
sympathized to the full extent of their kindly nat- 
ures, and father and aunt held many long consulta- 
tions over Annice and her prospects, and they never 
failed to commend her to the care of her heavenly 
Father. 

Judith, too, prayed for her daughter, for the good 
woman had long known the solace of prayer. Peter, 
though lacking the faith of his wife, called daily on 
the Lord in behalf of his child. One letter of Judj^’s 
contained these words : “ You canna think how much 
comfort I find in the thought that my parents are 
praying for me ; that, suffer as I may, through my 
own or another’s fault, I canna get so low and dis- 
couraged that those prayers willna help me. I mind 
the Book says, i The righteous cry and the Lord hear- 
eth them ; ’ and I feel that he will hear you for your 
poor Judy. I know that he has already heard you on 
my behalf, for often when I feel troubled I put up a 
w T ee prayer for mysel’, and then great waves of peace 
come over me.” 

Judy little knew r how unspeakably precious those 
few lines would be to her parents in after years. 
She little thought that her letter vmuld be soiled and 
crumpled by their tears as they turned it to see if in- 
deed those words were there. 

O, there is no comfort for those who are bereaved like 
that which comes from the knowledge that the absent 


88 


Ebb and Flow. 


ones loved and trusted God ; and the old hearts of Peter 
and Judith Morrison needed all this comfort. The 
blighting of Judy’s life blighted their lives, but since 
their child was in the way to eternal happiness at last 
they felt that they could bear any thing till they met 
to part no more. 

Mr. Robinson never failed to inquire after Judy, 
and when the old people told him that she found 
comfort in prayer he answered : 

“ Perhaps she, like many others, must needs suffer 
affliction to bring her to a right state of mind. Let 
us pray for her, and for all other burden-bearers, that 
the Everlasting Arms may bear them up.” 

“ Ay, we do that,” answered Judith. 

“ Ay, ay, Judith does a deal of praying for folk, it 
matters not whether they be of high or low degree,” 
said Peter. 

“ Then I hope your pastor is often remembered,” 
said Mr. Robinson. 

“ You may be sure of it, Mr. Robinson. Never a 
night passes but we ask the Lord to bless you,” re- 
turned Judith. 

“Well, my friends, I am heartily glad and thank- 
ful. I have been afraid that my people forgot that 
there was a necessity for remembering me in their 
prayers. You must not think that because we minis- 
ters are set apart to preach the word we are therefore 
above the prayers and ministrations of our flock. 
Often I get a word or a hint at one of the cottages 
that does me a deal of good. I shall go out from 
your home to-day stronger now that I know I am not 
forgotten at the time of your evening devotions.” 

The pastor had gone, and the old couple drew 


A Hard Winter. 


89 


nearer the fire as the light from the windows grew 
dim. 

“ It is gude to have one’s own hearthstone to sit 
by in this world o’ trouble,” Peter remarked, as he 
watched the red flames leaping up the chimney. 

“ Y ou are right, gudeman. Whiles I find mysel’ 
thinking o’ those who have na hame, and it makes 
me shiver even here in the cliimney-neuk. I fear I 
would hae but a faint heart if I had na fireside o’ 
my ain. God pity with his infinite pity those wha 
are hameless in this world o’ sorrow ! ” 

Judith seldom indulged in such a despondent strain. 
It was generally Peter who spoke in this manner, and 
the wife would say, “ Hae no care about that which 
the good Lord hirasel’ maun order.” But to-night 
it was he who said, “ God does pity with infinite 
pity.” 

Both were silent for some. time, and then Judith 
said, “ I fear Judy’s cot isna much of a hame.” 

“ Hot much mair than a sheil, I am afeard,” replied 
the old man. 

4< And her with that wee bairn ! Peter, if we live 
and she lives she maun have the offer o’ coming 
hame before another winter sets in.” 

“ Weel, we will see. The five pounds will help her 
through this winter, and when summer comes she 
will do weel enough, for Jamie is mair tentie in sum- 
mer-time. Besides, the warm weather will set Judy 
up and make her hersel’ again. Meantime we maun 
leave her with the Lord, as the good man but now 
told us.” 

“ I wish spring was here,” said Judith. 

“ So do I,” assented Peter, witli a sigh. 


90 


Ebb and Flow. 


And then the subject was dropped, though each 
parent was afraid to tell the other what was feared. 

The money was sent the next day, and it reached 
Judy none too soon. Her husband had fallen and 
injured himself so badly that his life was despaired 
of, and Judy was without any money till her father’s 
gift arrived. There were long hours when the poor 
wife was without means to provide the things needed 
for her husband, whom she still loved in spite of all 
his faults. Never was money more welcome than that 
five pounds to Judy Taylor. A lad was soon dis- 
patched for a doctor and for things indispensable in 
sickness. But Judy’s care for her husband was of 
short duration, for he died the third day. What was 
now to be done ? Judy was forty miles from home, 
and it was in the dead of winter. The neighbors 
w T ere as kind as they could be, but they were poor 
themselves and they could do little for her. In addi- 
tion to her sorrow she had another trouble ; she was 
anxious about her own health. She had taken a se- 
vere cold before her husband’s fall while doing some 
of the work that he should have done ; and then dur- 
ing the sorrow and the excitement following the acci- 
dent she had neglected herself. She began to think 
that her husband had not only sacrificed himself to 
the love of strong drink — for his head was far from 
steady when he fell — but that she too, through his 
negligence, had contracted a disease that might prove 
fatal. She longed for her father’s fireside, but deep 
snows lay between their homes, and the weather was 
too severe to venture the journey with little Dolly. 
Often, while the weak, weary mother waited for the 
laggard spring-time, she would say to the infant upon 


A Hard Winter. 


91 


her lap, “ Ay, bairnie, the snows will melt away, and 
then we will make the long-wished-for place of rest.” 
Dolly had so much attention bestowed upon her that 
she soon learned to return a smile, and then Judy felt 
that she was not alone. Furthermore, she had been 
learning more and more of the sweet peace of trusting 
in God. 


92 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

SPRING AND HOME. 

Spring had come. Even the snows of Scotland 
had turned to water and had run down the liill-sides to 
swell each river and burnie and moisten the roots of 
the springing grass. About old Peter’s home was the 
music of singing-birds, and within the cot everything 
wore a look of expectation. 

“ One would think that the bonnie birdies kenned 
that Judy was coming home the day,” said Peter, as 
he came to the door for his best coat, while the min- 
ister’s pony stood ready harnessed to meet the stage. 

Judith’s first expression on seeing Judy was, 4< O, 
my bairn, your e’en are too large, and how you have 
fallen awa’ ! ” Then she suddenly checked herself 
and said,'“ Your color is good, though.” 

But when the excitement of the meeting was over 
the mother could not even say that Judy had a 
healthy color. “ Our Judy is not long for this 
world,” she whispered to Peter in an unsteady voice. 

“ I am of the same mind,” he assented, hoarsely. 

But in Judy’s presence they bore themselves bravely. 

“ And this is wee Dolly ? ” said the grandmother, 
with all the cheerfulness she could command, as the 
little one wakened in the home of her grandparents. 

“ Ay, that is wee Dolly. And, mither, she will be 
yours, for I willna live to bring her up.” 

“ O, cheer up, Judy, bairn,” said the mother, ten- 


Spring and Home. 


93 


derly. “ Who kens what good nursing in your auld 
hame will do for you ? ” 

J udy sadly shook her head and said, “ It is too late 
for that now.” ' 

“ It is a sad case,” admitted the father, and then all 
three ceased to speak of it. 

Supper being over Judy went early to rest. She 
lay down on the bed in her own little room, and Ju- 
dith brought Dolly to her mother. Great tears stood 
in Judy’s eyes as she said, “ O, mitlier, it may easy 
be that I did wrong to leave this bonnie wee room 
and all the .comforts of home.” 

“ Weel, rest now, dearie, and leave that with the 
past.” 

Judy slept till late next morning, and Dolly slept 
too. Judith softly opened the door, and when she 
saw that they were asleep she turned away as stealthily 
as she came. 

“ How bad she looks ! ” she said, as she went down- 
stairs. As she went about her duties she was thinking 
about her daughter, and she could not help wondering 
why she slept so long. “ She maun hae been very 
tired,” she was saying to herself for the tenth time 
when Judy appeared. She smiled when she looked 
at the little clock and saw that it was already past nine. 

“Well, mither, no such sweet, care-free slumber 
has fallen upon my eyes since — ” 

She paused, and her mother asked, “ Since when, 
Judy ? ” 

“ Since Abel Macintosh first disturbed my childish 
happiness.” 

“ It is a thousand pities that we ever paid any heed 
to the matter, since it has so disturbed your peace.” 


94 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ It is a pity of many things, mitlier, and I want 
to ask your forgiveness for all the trouble I have 
caused you.” 

“It was forgiven, my Judy, as soon as caused.” 

“ And father ? ” she asked, slowly. “ He . maun 
have spent nearly all his savings upon me. What 
will he have for an old day ? ” 

“ The care of his heavenly Father,” was Judith’s 
answer. 

Judy seemed but half satisfied, and she continued : 

“ I know that the care of our heavenly Father is 
sufficient, but it seems hard that those who are hur- 
rying on to old age maun be robbed of their savings 
by those who are in the prime of life. You cannot 
know how much I disliked to ask for help. But, 
mitlier, hunger and cold will bring a body to do what 
they dinna think to do.” 

“ Have you felt both hunger and cold, my bairn ? ” 

“ Ay, mitlier ; hunger and cold and fear all at 
once.” 

“Fear, Judy? Sure Jamie wasna bad enough to 
hurt you, my bairn ? ” 

Judy hastened to explain: “Ho; I felt the fear 
when I was left alone. You ken that I was aye 
something of a coward.” 

Judith heaved a sigh of relief. She was about to 
speak, when a shadow fell athwart her door and Mr. 
Robinson entered. He was scarcely prepared to see 
Judy looking so ill, and surprise was manifested in 
his looks. This did not escape the eye of the invalid, 
and she spoke, saying : 

“ You liadna thought to see me looking so badly, 
sir ? ” 


Spring and Home. 95 

u Ho, I did not. I am sorry to see you looking so 
unlike, yourself.” 

“ Weel, it is even so, good pastor, and I maun sub- 
mit to the inevitable. I doubt not that I might have 
been helped at first, but not now. I have suffered, 
suffered! It was through my own willfulness, per- 
haps; but the Lord does not willingly afflict us, 
though we are poor, sinful creatures. If I could 
only know that I am not greatly to blame for what 
has come upon me I could bear it better. What do 
you think about it?” she inquired, looking into Mr. 
Robinson’s face with such manifest entreaty that he 
could oidy say, “I doubt, Judy, if you are more to 
blame than many people who have less trouble. God 
has his purposes, and we can never tell how much 
our lives are influenced by them.” 

“ Ay, but we maunna tempt him by our disobedi- 
ence to his commands, or by disobedience to parents, 
which is almost the same.” 

“I see, Judy. But when we remember that 4 there 
is none that doeth good, no, not one,’ we had better let 
go our sins, no matter what pain they have caused ns, 
and accept offered pardon and free salvation. We 
cannot rid ourselves of our sins, whether they be 
great or small, and all sin is great in God’s sight. 
Repentance toward God and faith in our Lord Jesus 
Christ are all we need, no matter where we find our- 
selves placed or what has placed us there.” 

“ I thought,” said Judy, “that father and mother 
would feel less bitterness if they thought that Judy 
didna throw away her life.” 

She was weary with so much talking, and the good 
pastor assured her that her parents knew that nothing 


96 


Ebb and Flow. 


could happen to her unless God permitted it. She 
became calmer, and sat with her ejes fixed on 
vacancy, her face growing sadder and sadder. The 
pastor noticed this, and he began to talk to Dolly and 
praised her to Judy. What mother is proof against 
praise of her child ? And Judy at once became inter- 
ested in all he said. 

That afternoon Mrs. Raeburn went to Peter’s cot- 
tage, and tears started in her eyes as she saw in J udy 
only the wreck of the once fair, plump girl who had 
loved to tend little Mark and Walter. She had 
brought the two-year-old Lilias to see Judy’s baby, 
and the little child was delighted with the smaller 
specimen of humanity. She hung about the great 
ungainly cradle — Peter’s handiwork when his own 
child was an infant — and nothing else could attract 
her attention. Even Judith's white kitten, that left 
its cushioned stool and came rubbing itself against 
the child’s legs and purring with all its might, could 
not get the usual stroking from her little palm. 

“Is the bairn bonnie, Lilias?” asked the grand- 
mother, smiling, for she was pleased that Dolly inter- 
ested the little visitor. 

Lilias gave a quick little nod,' which was her only 
answer. 

“I suppose Mark is a big lad now,” said Judy. 
“ He maun be ten past. How I loved that bairn ! But 
he willna remember me, I’m thinking.” 

She spoke hurriedly, and it was evident that a rush 
of memories came over her as she referred to past 
years. 

“ Yes, Mark is over ten, and he is a big lad. You 
could not carry him now, for he will outweigh you. 


Spuing and Home. 


97 


He remembers you, for lie talked of you last evening. 
He remembers that you carried him upon your 
shoulders, and he remembers your laugh, and that 
your hair was dark and curling.” 

“ Bless his wee heart ! When will he come and see 
me? I would like to see the other lad too. Walter 
was his name ? ” 

“Ay, Walter is his name. But, Judy, I have 
another lad, whom I call Norman.” 

“ Have you, though? Weel, I didna ken it.” 

“ We surely wrote to you about it, Judy,” said her 
mother. 

“ Very likely. Weel, it is no wonder that I have 
forgotten some tilings. I have seen times when 
amid all my troubles I have had hard work to make 
inyseP believe that I ever was happy Judy Morri- 
son.” 

“ Poor bairn ! ” said her mother. Mrs. Raeburn 
held her handkerchief before her eyes, for she was 
thinking of what her husband had said about Judy so 
many years before. 

Surely he read her heart aright. It was a light 
heart, but it could not remain light when it met with 
unkindness and neglect. 

It would almost seem that Judy had been reading 
her thoughts, for her next words were : 

“There is no use in trying to make you believe 
that I have been happy, for my looks would give my 
words the lie. Seems to me that my bairn has a sor- 
rowful, old-fashioned look. I hope her disposition 
willna take color from her mothers unhappiness; 
perhaps it willna, for once in a while she gives me a 
rare, sweet smile. I think I would have given up 
7 


98 


Ebb and Flow. 


and died in that long, dark winter if it hadna been 
for that smile of Dolly’s.” 

Mrs. Raeburn gently led her to speak of other 
tilings, and sometimes she even smiled. But her 
smile was so wan that it reminded Mrs. Raeburn of a 
glimpse of sunlight on a bleak December day. "When 
she rose to go home Judy said : 

“ Now, dinna forget to send the lads to see me. 
And Aggie — is she still with you ? I am just hungry 
for a glimpse of her dear face.” 

“Aggie and the lads will be over this evening, I 
think,” was the answer. 

When Aggie heard how Judy looked she said, “I 
have no heart to gang.” 

“ That is not like you, Aggie,” said her mistress. 

“ I ken it ; but I canna bear to think of that bright- 
faced lassie as a broken-down woman, and her laugh 
used to be so joyous and her step so light and free. 
It would be weel if lassies could stay lassies ; or, since 
they maun grow old, they could do worse than to 
lead a single life, like your own handmaid Aggie 
Simpson.” 

Aggie had little to say when she returned from 
visiting Judy. Even the boys were very quiet. It 
was evident to all that Judy would soon leave the 
world that she used to think so bonnie. 

“What do you think of Judy, Aggie?” Mrs. Rae- 
burn asked of her faithful servant, when they were 
alone a^ain. 

o 

“ She will be away before summer-time, I make no 
doubt.” 

Mrs. Raeburn felt that the words were too true, 
and both women put up a silent prayer that beyond 


Spring and Home. 


99 


this world of changes the poor sufferer might find 
everlasting peace and happiness. 

About a month after Judy returned to her father’s 
house she had a strange dream. She felt much worse 
than usual, so she slept in the afternoon, and she 
wakened just as the sun’s last rays shot through her 
little window. Judith sat near with her foot upon 
Dolly’s cradle and her eyes upon her daughter’s 
face. At the first sign of awakening she went softly 
to her and asked, “ Are you better, J udy ? ” 

Before the question was answered Aggie came in, 
and so noiselessly did she move that Judith was not 
aware of her approach till Judy feebly bade her good- 
evening. 

w How is she this evening ? ” Aggie asked. 

“ She has been sleeping, and I have just speered at 
her to ken ; but she liasna told me yet,” replied 
Judith, sadly. 

“I havena told you, for I dinna ken mysel’ for 
sure. I think I am going to leave you. I have 
dreamed of such a bonnie land, bonnier than any I 
have seen. The hills are greener than ours in spring- 
time, the flowers are rarer than the bonniest that I 
ever plucked, and the fruits mind me of the time when 
orchards are ripe. Then I heard a voice calling me 
and saying, ‘Come away, come where there is no 
more sickness, sorrow, or death ! ’ The voice had an 
amazing sweetness in it, and I am fain to believe that 
it was the voice of the Master himsel’.” She sighed 
heavily, and said, “ I am that weary that I wish I 
could go.” 

And her wish was granted; for while the sun’s 
last rays struck her dying pillow Judy went to rest. 


100 


Ebb and Flow. ' 


CHAPTER XV. 

FOREBODINGS. 

The Raeburn family were again made happy by 
the presence of the husband and father. Mrs. Rae- 
burn’s smile was gladder than usual, and her eyes 
followed him as he sat among his children or walked 
out with the boys, carrying tilias in his arms. Some- 
times she chose to walk, and then he led her slowly 
and carefully, looking down upon her little figure 
with a tenderness that only a parent can show or feel. 
“This is too good to miss,” Mrs. Raeburn would say 
to herself, and she never failed to watch them as long 
as the group remained in sight. 

One day he returned from a ramble with all his 
children. His face wore a look of care and sadness 
that was seldom seen upon it when he was at home. 
The quick eyes -of his wife detected it, and she asked, 
“What is amiss, Evan?” 

“ Nothing,” he replied, “ only I have been indulg- 
ing in a morbid fancy about the future.” 

“That is wrong, good husband,” she replied, cheer- 
fully. “ Take the good that comes to you, and always 
expect something better to follow. If what we call 
evils befall us we shall be better able to bear them if 
we have not spent our strength in anticipating them. 
You know our Saviour himself said, ‘ Sufficient unto 
the day is the evil thereof.’ ” 

“ You are right, Jessie, and I am glad you are so 




Forebodings. 


) 


101 


cheerful. But do you really think that we bear 
trouble better for not remembering that it is always 
possible at any time ? ” 

“ Yes, I do. I think many people have worn their 
lives away thinking, ‘ What if such a thing should 
happen ? ’ And if it did happen they had no hoarded 
strength to meet it.” 

“ We do not meet trouble in our own strength, 
Jessie.” 

“ No, £ He helpeth our infirmities.’ But still if we 
waste our strength fearing trouble I believe we dis- 
please as well as distrust our heavenly Father. All 
we can do in this world of changes, where there is, as 
our good pastor told Aunt Alice, ‘the constant ebb 
and flow of joy and sorrow,’ is to trust that God 
knows best.” 

“ You are a good as well as a bonnie wee wife,” 
said her husband, who liked at times to speak as his 
fathers had done before him. He bent over her chair 
and kissed her as she sat busied with some sewing for 
the children. She looked up into his face and noticed 
a tear in his eye. “ Well, Evan ! ” she exclaimed, 
“ what disturbs you so '( I cannot bear to see it.” 

“ It is only this : I hope that death will not come 
between us for many years yet.” 

Mrs. Raeburn’s face sobered, and slie replied very 
softly, “Dear Evan, would it not be better to leave 
even that with Him ‘ who doeth all things well ? ’ ” 

Let no one who reads Jessie Raeburn’s after sor- 
rows think that she spoke those words without ex- 
periencing any thing of their meaning. She had not 
thought of death till her husband spoke of it; then 
her heart gave a sudden throb of pain ; but she knew 


102 


Ebb and Flow. 


no other trust than that centered in the wisdom and 
goodness of God. 

Before Lieutenant It ae burn left home he bought a 
pony and carriage and taught Mark to drive. But, 
although by this means rides were furnished for all, 
and thus not a little time occupied, all the rest of his 
stay the father was too pensive to seem natural 
to his children, and Jessie did not entirely shake off 
the effects of their serious conversation. 

Mrs. Raeburn and her husband went to Peter Mor- 
rison’s home to see the old couple and Judy’s little 
girl. He had heard her sad story, and he felt very 
sorry for the old people, who had been twice be- 
reaved. He knew how to sympathize with them, 
how to draw them to speak of Judy in such a 
way as to comfort their hearts. It is often a great 
solace to the sorrowing to find a willing listener. 
It often confers more of a favor than a volume of 
advice. 

“You see,” said Peter, “although one kens that 
God does what is best, chastisement and bereavement 
hurt us for all. It is like the work of a physician 
when he handles a broken bone. It maun be set, but 
my ! the pain o’ it. I suppose it w T as better for Judy 
to go through trials, since she mightna have found 
out the comfort of going to God in prayer wi’out 
them. But we were amain sorry to ken that she had 
suffered so much. The poor lass tortured herself for 
fear her suffering was the outgrowth of her aiti fault 
and not from the hand of God as direct as she could 
have wished for. It was amaist useless to tell her not 
to fret herself, seeing her trouble had worked for her 
good. Weel, it was hard to give Judy up for the 


Forebodings. 


103 


second time ; we gave her np once when she wedded 
against our judgment, though not against our com- 
mand, for we wouldna bind her that length. Then 
when she came back heart-broken and penitent we 
would have liked to comfort her, to have bound up 
the poor, sair heart, but God has taken her to liimseP ; 
he can comfort her better than we could, for his is a 
mair healing hand than ours, and the place that he 
has gone to prepare for those that love him sliouldna 
so much as be spoken o’ in connection with our poor 
cot. And yet the lass loved every stick and stone in 
it. Ay, ay, she loved it weel ; but she is gone, and we 
miss her. Still, she has left us a fine little lassie,” he 
said, brightening. “ Judith, isna it amaist time for 
wee Dolly to waken ? ” 

“ Ay, she will waken soon,” returned his wife. 

Just then the little one raised her head from the 
pillow and looked around in that expectant way that 
asks, “ Who is coming to take me up ? ” 

Old Peter had a broad grin upon his face as he 
said, “ Look, look, see the wee head come up ! ” 

Judith went to take the child up, and she furnished 
the theme for further conversation, and the remainder 
of the call was pleasanter. 

When Mr. and Mrs. Paeburn w~ere at home again 
they had a long talk about their own children. In 
particular did the father speak of little Lilias’s future. 
They were watching her at play, and the father said, 
“ It needs faith to look forward into the future with- 
out feeling a fear for the young, the tender, and the 
innocent ; for in a world like this there is little 
chance to calculate with any certainty from a human 
stand-point. The weak bend before the strong and 


104 


Ebb and Flow. 


the innocent fall an easy prey to the designing. I 
tell you, we parents need to be Christians and to be 
filled with the Christian’s hope and trust if we would 
enjoy one comfortable day.” 

“Well, Evan, that is our privilege and our duty. 
You are thinking of Judy’s sufferings, and that 
makes you a little down-hearted about Lilias. Is it 
not so?” 

The husband bowed his head, and the wife speedily 
answered, “Judy’s case was somewhat peculiar. I 
am sure the poor thing was more than half right in 
thinking she had brought much of her trouble upon 
herself. She was young and foolish, and probably if 
she had been a few years older she would not have 
married Jamie Taylor. There is that excuse for her; 
but she should have remembered the commandment 
concerning honoring parents and the promise attached 
to it.” 

“ Then perhaps you would have advised her to 
marry Abel ? ” 

“Ho, I would not, unless she could have loved him. 
In that case she would have been happy, for Abel 
would have made her a kind and faithful husband. 
But I would have advised her to wait until her judg- 
ment w r as better developed. I always thought it bet- 
ter never to be mated than to be mismated.” 

“ That is what I believe too. If we can bring up 
our children, Lilias especially, to think as we do I 
shall feel much relieved. And yet, after all is said 
and done, we must leave both ourselves and our bairns 
in the hand of God.” 

“Ay, Evan, dear. And is not that hand large 
enough to hold us, and loving enough to shield us? 


Forebodings. 


105 


You must not borrow trouble. It is so unlike you 
to talk so that it makes me feel strange. It is time 
for evening prayer, and I must call the bairns in. 
The dew has been falling some time, and Lilias has a 
cold al ready.” 

She called the children, then drew up the light 
stand that held her father’s Bible. Then all their 
cares were committed to Him from whose word they 
read : “ As for God, his way is perfect ; the word of 
the Lord is tried : he is a buckler to all them that 
trust in him.” 


Ebb and Flow. 


lOti 


CHAPTER XVL 
THE FORTUNE OF WAR. 

Two years more have passed over our friends, and 
we now come- to a sad time in Jessie Raeburn’s life. 
Evan Raeburn was wounded in a slight skirmish and 
he came home to rest and be nursed back to health. 
But the rest was to be longer than he had anticipated, 
even the rest that the grave brings. From the very 
first Mrs. Raeburn was anxious. Never before the 
visit above referred to had she entertained any serious 
thoughts of a separation. But now the wound and 
her husband’s evident weakness and his unusual se- 
riousness told upon her mind so that she had hard 
work to appear cheerful. Dr. Blair, their family 
physician, had given her to understand that much 
depended upon her keeping cheerful. He was a 
genial man, and his very presence in the sick-room 
seemed to do his patients good. And perhaps there 
is some truth in the statement, for the sick feel the 
influence of a merry, good-natured countenance. 
One day he was leaving when Jessie followed him and 
asked the question that physicians dislike to hear and 
answer : “ Tell me, doctor, will Mr. Raeburn live ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you yet ; we will do all we can and 
hope for the best ; but in God’s hand lies the de- 
cision.” 

Mrs. Raeburn recalled her own words to her hus- 
band : “ Is not that hand large enough to hold us, and 


Tiie Fortune of War. 


107 


loving enough to shield us ? ” Alas ! the words had 
not the same comfort in them now. She felt that the 
doctor was keeping something from her ; she noticed 
his averted eyes and unusual manner, and there fell 
upon her soul almost a certain belief that her husband 
would die. But she forced herself to smile as she 
returned to the sick-room. lie smiled as he saw her, 
and though she did not know it, he understood her 
perfectly. Iiis thoughts were, “ Poor wife ! She wants 
to hide her anxiety and give me a last chance of life 
by her seeming cheerfulness.” And her thoughts 
were, u Poor Evan ! He thinks he is going to live, and 
life is so sweet to him. How can I bear to deceive 
him, and how can I bear to tell him the truth ?” 

Days passed on, while both husband and wife acted 
a part. At length the sick man said: “ Jessie, it 
would be more profitable for us to stop trying to 
deceive ourselves and each other. It is better for 
you to know that I indulge no hope of recovery. I 
have known for some time that you had but little 
hope of me. Let us put away this acting what we do 
not feel. There are things that we want to say to each 
other, and the opportunities to say them are passing. 
Let us look the truth fairly in the face and become 
familiar with it. Let us see if we cannot trust God’s 
wisdom so as to be even more cheerful than we pre- 
tended to be.” 

Jessie's long-pent-up sorrow gave way, and she an- 
swered him only with her tears. 

“ Jessie,” her husband said, calmly, “ we have been 
much longer in the way to heaven than your cousin 
John was, and he had no fear of death, no fear of any 
thing. To-day, as I lie here, his dying words come 


108 


Ebb and Flow. 


back to me : ‘ I have learned that behind all the seem- 
ing happenings of our lives lies the firm hand of Al- 
mighty God, that his grip is upon every thing that 
can come in the way of his children, that nothing can 
come unless it is let, and that he lets nothing unless 
it is for our good.’ ” 

He stopped and looked at his wife, hoping that his 
words had comforted her. She had evidently been 
listening, but she made no reply. She looked so cast 
down that he could not say more. “To-morrow, Jes- 
sie, since you cannot bear it now, I want to talk with 
you about some things I want done when I am gone.” 

As he spoke the last word a shriek interrupted him, 
and he waited till Jessie was more quiet before he 
added, “ In the meantime I want you to seek help of 
the strong One, so that you can bear to hear me.” 

The morrow found Lieutenant Raeburn much 
weaker, and his wife saw that she must nerve herself 
to hear what he had to say, or she might have cause 
to regret it. So she went to him and said, “ Evan, 
say what is in your heart to say. I must not lose any 
chance to learn your wishes, though my heart almost 
breaks to think of the separation.” 

Then followed a long talk, low-voiced and sad. 
Sometimes it was interrupted by Jessie’s sobs, and 
sometimes her broken answers varied the almost con- 
stant flow of his words. When every thing else had 
been settled he asked, “ Is it best to tell the bairns ? 
I think Mark, at least, should know.” 

“ Yes, Mark must be told, and that by yourself. 
But Walter, poor lad ! will find it out too soon, and 
Norman and Lilias are so little. O, dear, what a 
world it is ! Children must mourn often before they 


The Fortune of War. 


109 


know aught else. I will go now and send Mark, but 
do not talk too long.” 

Mark was with his father a half-hour, and when he 
came from the sick-chamber his eyes were red and 
swollen with weeping. Long after the husband and 
father had gone the mother questioned : 

“What did lie say to you, my lad ? ” 

“ He said I must be a good lad and a good man and 
take care of you,” said the boy, his voice choking even 
then. “ lie spoke of other things ; but I mind he aye 
came back to you and Lilias, that I must take his 
place and care for both.” 

If any one had heard what passed between the 
dying father and his son he would have noticed how 
tender and yet how binding were the charges given 
to Mark concerning his mother and sister. The fa- 
ther quieted the boy’s grief by telling him how he 
depended upon him to comfort his mother’s grief 
after he was gone. No doubt he did it to divert 
Mark’s mind from his own sorrow, and yet the charge 
w T as far from being an idle one, for the dying father 
knew that there was a depth of manly tenderness in 
his boy. The younger children were ignorant of 
their coming bereavement until the morning of the 
last day. They were standing by the doctor’s gig as 
he came to drive away, and they noticed that his face 
was very sad as he said, as if forgetting their pres- 
ence, “ Poor lads ! They will take their turn at sor- 
row early.” 

“Is father going to die?” asked Walter, in a 
frightened voice. 

“ Poor laddies ! Has no one told you ? ” 

But neither Norman nor Walter answered him ; 


no 


Ebb and Flow. 


they were sobbing in each other’s arms. Dr. Blair 
dropped the reins and stood beside them, a hand on 
each head. 

“ Poor lads ! ” he repeated for the third time, then 
added, “God bless and keep you! Mind, whatever 
happens you have a friend in Dr. Blair,” and hurried 
away. 

It was one of those still days that sometimes come 
to us in early autumn : there was no air stirring, and 
the heat was oppressive. The windows of the sick- 
chamber were raised, and Mrs. Raeburn sat long hours 
by the bedside fanning her dying husband. Only for 
a moment would she allow Mark to take her place, 
when she would step into the next room, where the 
other children were quietly sitting, and lay her hand 
upon their heads and leave a tender kiss upon their 
faces. Aggie — -good, kind Aggie — remained in the 
kitchen most of the time; but her work went on very 
slowly. Her hands wanted their usual activity, but 
her heart was all astir with love and pity, and her 
prayers were constantly ascending to God in behalf 
of the afflicted family. 

It was high noon. Outside the leaves drooped, 
and within doors there seemed to be scarcely enough 
air to breathe. Mr. Robinson made his way from the 
manse under the shade of an umbrella, and he too was 
waiting in the chamber where death was about to 
enter. The dying man was sensible of his situation, 
and for his sake all manifestations of grief were sup- 
pressed. 

“ Poor Mrs. Raeburn ! She is learning in silence 
this hard lesson of trust,” thought her pastor as 
he watched her white, calm face. But she was not 


The Fortune of War. 


Ill 


learning it as readily as lie supposed. The time was 
close at hand when the pent-up sorrows would gather 
something of sullenness and stubbornness. Had he 
looked more closely he would have seen a want of 
submission in the face which was so rapt in watching 
that other face over which the death-pallor was fast 
spreading. Mr. Robinson was watching too, and 
when he saw that an unmistakable change had come 
lie stood by the suffering woman and said, “ This is 
the end.” ' 

Jessie Raeburn bowed her head, saying, “ I know 
it. Mark, call the other children and Aggie.” 

In a moment more all were present, and then the 
death-angel laid his hand upon the husband and father, 
and he was no more in the land of the living. The 
children were noisy in their grief, and Aggie’s tears 
trickled over her broad, full cheeks. Even the min- 
ister wept, but the newly made widow did not shed 
a tear. And so she bore up till the funeral was over ; 
all her actions seemed to be mechanical, and her feel- 
ings were locked in her own bosom. 

The day after the funeral was beautiful. Fresh 
breezes swayed the vines at the cottage windows, and 
the sunlight shone through their interlacing tendrils; 
but the widow saw it not. The sunbeams even 
touched her bowed head with a soft radiance, but she 
had not lifted her eyes since .the early morning; for 
the gladness she saw in nature only pained her since 
lie who loved the sunlight was buried in the dark 
grave. She seemed neither to see nor to hear. True, 
there was little to hear in that silent room, but there 
was something to see. Little Lilias stood unheeded 
at her knee, looking up with beseeching eyes, her lips 


112 


Ebb and Flow. 


ready to form the word mother; but she waited“for more 
encouragement before she ventured. Opposite the 
mother sat Mark, not for one moment forgetting that 
he was to be his mother’s comforter. Walter and 
Norman had gone into the fields for a walk to divert 
themselves from their sadness ; but Mark lingered, 
ostensibly to amuse the gentle little sister, but really 
he stayed to watch his mother. This he did constantly, 
hoping to help her in some way. Child as he was, 
and sad as he was over his own loss, he yearned to 
comfort his sorrowing parent and thus fulfill the 
trust left by his dying father. But he did not know 
what to say by way of consolation, and he was glad 
when he saw Mr. Bobinson enter their door. 

The good man took in the situation at a glance, and, 
crossing the room to the widow, he asked, 44 What, no 
light yet, daughter ? ” 

“None, sir,” she answered, disconsolately. 

“ Have, you sought Him, the Fountain of light? 
If so, it is strange that there is no rift in the dark- 
ness.” 

Mrs. Baeburn’s eyes dropped, and she answered 
slowly, “ I cannot find light and comfort in the 
Lord, because I could not say from the heart, 4 Thy 
will be done.’ I feel that I have barred myself from 
his presence.” 

44 Did you earnestly desire to be led into such a 
frame of mind that you could say it ? ” 

44 1 do not know as I tried the right way. I know 
that the words died on my lips, for my heart rebelled 
against them.” 

44 Poor daughter !” he said, in atone of pity, and he 
cast upon her such a benign look that showed her that 


The Fortune of War. 


113 


he could not blame her, that he had known some- 
thing of the same struggle. A few minutes later he 
spoke again: <k If vour husband is with Jesus, as we 
well believe he is, he would be grieved to know that 
you grudge him to the Lord, wdio bought him with 
his own blood.” 

“ I had not thought of that,” she said, bursting into 
tears. 

Little Lilias saw’ her tears, and they frightened her. 
But the pastor, who had comforted many mourning 
hearts, knew them to be a good omen, and he said, 
“ Let us bow before One who is the searcher of hearts, 
and although he saw that you were unwilling to give 
up your husband to him, yet he is 4 touched with the 
feeling of our infirmities,’ for he has known human 
sorrow.” 

The prayer that followed was blessed to the 
mourner; it softened her grief, and when at parting 
she took her minister’s hand she said, u The Master 
has given me a glimpse of his face. May I be for- 
given that I ever doubted his goodness.” 


114 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

COMFORTS IN SORROW. 

The door had scarcely closed upon the faithful pas- 
tor when Mark came and stood before his mother, say- 
ing, “ Mother, you surely didna doubt God’s good- 
ness ? ” 

“I was sorely tried, laddie, and I fear I did at 
times. You must say many a prayer for your mother, 
Mark.” 

“That I will; I have ever since the sorrow first 
overtook us.” 

“ You are a good lad, my son, and God will surely 
bless you.” 

“ I will pray for you too, mother,” said Lilias. 

“ Will you,- my wee bairn ? ” said the mother, stoop- 
ing to kiss the upturned face. The child smiled 
gladly and went over to Mark’s side, and he put his 
arm around her and kissed her too. 

Walter and Norman soon came in, and they saw 
that their mother had been weeping. Walter went 
and laid liis hand on her shoulder with a caressing 
gesture, and Norman said, “ Mother, if you would go 
out upon the hill-side you would not feel so sad.” 

“That is true, mother,” added Walter, “for the 
hill is so bonnie. The gold of the gorse is so pretty 
with the purple of the heather, and then there are so 
many sweet smells from the woodlands.” 

The mother looked proudly at him and replied, 


Comforts in Sorrow. 


115 


“ Sometime, please God, I will look at nature as you 
do, my lads, but I cannot at present. A great and a 
fresh sorrow puts a leaden hue to whatever the eye 
rests upon, but as time wears on it softens our sor- 
rows, and we come to have a more natural vision. 
To-day I feel that the world, bonnie as it is, will aye 
wear a somber look to your poor mother.” 

Walter understood her well. She had made him 
her companion in many long rambles in the wx)ods 
and fields, and she often described to him the peculiar 
beauties of each season of the year, and he wondered 
if never again in her glowing language she would 
picture those scenes to him. He had himself a poet’s 
eye and a poet’s heart, and he grieved that his mother 
had missed all the beauty that he had just enjoyed. 
So he said with a touch of sadness, “ But, mother, the 
bonnie days will soon pass, and the snow will lie deep 
on the fields and woods.” 

“ Let them pass, Walter, lad. I will be as well 
pleased with one season as with another while my 
grief is so heavy upon me. Go out yourself and see 
and worship God in his works. Forget your grief as 
much as you may, and pray many times a day that 
you may be kept in the same spirit of reverence. 
You are all good bairns, and so far I am perfectly 
satisfied with you ; but when 1 remember that the 
strong hand that would have helped me guide you 
lies low I am filled with a feeling of heavy responsi- 
bility.” 

u You haven’t forgotten, mother, that you cannot 
be alone,” said Mark. 

“ Ho, lad, no. I know that God is always near us, 
and that to help, if we ask him ; but O, the desolation 


116 


Ebb and Flow. 


that breaks' over those who have lost their clearest 
earthly friend! You cannot quite understand it, for 
you still have your mother.” 

“ And you still have us, mother,” said sweet little 
Lilias. 

“ Ay, my wee rosebud ; I must not forget that for 
one minute. No danger that I will forget it, but I 
may forget to be thankful.” 

“ Mother,” said Norman, hesitatingly, “ did not the 
minister say that father is happier now than ever he 
was in this world, and that God wants us to join him 
in heaven ? ” 

“ Yes, he said that, my son.” 

“Then can’t we be happy here by ourselves till we 
meet father there? You know he can never be hurt 
any more, nor be sick any more.” 

“ That is well said, laddie. Reason assents to it ; 
but earthly ties are strong, so strong.” 

' The last words were said as if she spoke to herself. 
No one broke the silence for some time, and dark- 
ness fell upon them. Lilias sat in her mother’s lap, 
her head resting against her mother’s shoulder and 
the palm of her small hand gently patting the sad 
woman’s cheek. Mark was looking out of the win- 
dow watching the last streaks of light arid listening 
to the leaves as they rustled against the roof. Walter 
and Norman were never very far apart, and now they 
sat together on a low settle. All were slightly dis- 
turbed when Aggie came to call them to supper. 
Though far from cheerful, this meal was an improve- 
ment on any that had been taken since the father’s 
danger became apparent. Aggie was pleased that 
her mistress not only sipped her tea but partook of 


Comforts in Sorrow. 117 

food as usual, and she confided to Mark that his 
“ mither would win through her trial.” 

“ I think she is more comfortable,” said the 
thoughtful boy, and added, “ Aggie, you must not 
forget her when you go down upon your knees.” 

“ Have no fears for that till I forget that my name 
is Aggie Simpson.” 

Mark was not a little cheered by Aggie’s words, 
and when he went back to the sitting-room he mod- 
estly offered to read aloud. 

“ What will you read, my lad ?” asked the mother, 
wearily. 

“ I am reading the story of Lady Lisle, but it is so 
sad ; may be you will not like to hear it.” 

“No, don’t read that. Take the book of all books 
and begin with the Twenty -third Psalm, and just read 
on. If any thing can soothe a wounded, troubled 
heart the psalms of David will do it.” 

Mark reached out for the large worn Bible, the 
very sight of which seemed to comfort his mother, for 
it had belonged to her father, and she knew that her 
parents had often been solaced by its words of inspi- 
ration. Mark’s childish voice sounded soft and sweet 
in that saddened home. Psalm after psalm was read, 
each bringing its own message. Every petition 
awoke an echo in her heart, every word of assurance 
met her need, until she felt that God’s presence was 
what she craved, and her soul was in unison with the 
psalmist when he said, “ As the hart panteth after the 
water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.” 
When that psalm was ended she spoke, saying, “ That 
will do, laddie, stop with that one.” Then she re- 
peated slowly and reverently, “ 4 Why art thou cast 


118 


Ebb and Flow. 


down, O my soul ? and why art thou disquieted with- 
in me? hope thou in God : for I shall yet praise him, 
who is the health of my countenance, and my God. ’ 
The Bible, my bairns, must surely be the word of 
God ; there is no mistaking it ; it has in it a soul- 
convincing power.” 

The evening was wearing on ; still Mrs. Raeburn • 
did not send her children from her. Aggie brought a 
candle to light the boys to their rooms, but the 
mother did not bid them good-night. Even little 
Lilias still sat in her low chair by her mother’s side. 
When Aggie returned and saw the children still wait- 
ing she supposed that her mistress was too much oc- 
cupied with her thoughts to notice the signs of sleep 
in her children, and she said, “Hadna the bairns bet- 
ter gang to their beds at ance? ” 

Mrs. Raeburn bowed assent, and bade the children 
an affectionate good-night. After they retired Aggie 
remarked to her, “ I ken weel, mistress, that I amna 
company for the likes o’ you, but if you would like 
me to sit up wi’ you it will gie me pleasure to do sa.” 

“ETo, Aggie,” replied Mrs. Raeburn, “I shall go to 
rest presently. I did fear to be left alone with my 
sadness; that was why I let the children linger, but I 
feel more courage now. The Lord, our Lord, for 
you ken him yourself, Aggie, has strengthened me to 
face the long, dark hours of night, and 1 doubt not I 
shall rest and sleep.” 


Widows and Friends. 


119 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

WIDOWS AND FRIENDS. 

Rather more than a week had passed since the 
minister visited his sorrowing parishioner. The 
weather was still fine; the frost-king seemed unwill- 
ing to lay his hand upon the rare beauties of autumn. 
Mr. Robinson was reading our Saviour’s charge to 
Peter, “ Feed my sheep ; ” and naturally his thoughts 
turned to her who most needed consolation. So lie 
arose, took his hat and cane, and started out for the 
Raeburn cottage. Walter and Norman were again 
strolling on the hill-sides, when they saw their minister 
in the distance and ran to meet him. He took a hand 
of each, and in this way the group approached the 
house. It was easy to see that the lads had no fear of 
him, for they talked easily, showing no more reserve 
than was prompted by due deference. 

The pastor found Mrs. Raeburn busied with some 
light occupation. She greeted him with something of 
her old cheerfulness, and when asked how she felt she 
replied, “ Better than when I last saw you, praised be 
the God of grace ! I feel that life is still sweet, and I re- 
alize that I am blessed in my children. God is good.” 

“ Ay, God is good, ever good, and perhaps never 
more so than when he afflicts. The Christian, rest as- 
sured, needs no less discipline than he is called to un- 
dergo. As the fruits of the earth never mature under 
perpetual sunshine, but need the dew and the storms as 


120 


Ebb and Flow. 


well, so the child of God needs the storms of affliction, 
the insights into his own evil heart that bring to his 
eyes the dew of repentance. Both are more neces- 
sary than the smiles of fortune and the friendship of 
friends. He grows faster under adversity ; some- 
times under a heavy trial his soul seems to leap with 
one great bound far on in the 4 highway that is cast 
up for the ransomed of the Lord to walk in . 5 Such 
advancement is not always apparent to others, but the 
soul that has made it feels its own quiet peace, feels 
that heaven is near ; it has a joy that is peculiarly its 
own, which he cannot communicate to others, because 
each must seek it for himself from the Fountain-head . 55 

Mrs. Raeburn sighed as she said, “ Can my sorrows 
bear such fruit after all my repinings? O, that they 
would ! 55 

“ Seek earnestly to have your affections sanctified, 
and no doubt a like blessing will be yours. Do not 
set your heart too much upon any earthly object. 
We fill our hearts with human loves and earthly am- 
bitions, thus shutting out the divine Spirit till God, 
anxious for our good and jealous for his honor, 
empties us of them. Well for us is it if we then know 
our need and open our souls to the gracious influences 
of God’s presence . 55 

Mr. Robinson had a purpose in speaking as he did. 
That Mrs. Raeburn had loved her husband almost to 
idolatry was easily guessed, and a fear oppressed him 
that when her grief for him had somewhat subsided 
she would transfer this affection to her children. His 
listener was a woman of quick discernment, and after 
a few moments she said, “ The natural heart always 
seeks something tangible, the natural eye rests only on 


Widows and Friends. 


121 


tilings that are seen ; it is only the spirit that can dis- 
cern the spiritual. I must seek to he heavenly- 
minded, or I shall. love my children too well, and so 
shut out the love of God.” 

“ It can be done,” replied the aged saint. “ Our own 
neglect can do what 4 death, nor life, nor principali- 
ties, nor powers 5 cannot do. Perhaps it is as great, 
even a greater insult to Jehovah to forget him, to 
ignore him, than to disobey him. Sad, is it not, that 
we can sin so deeply and yet so naturally ? ” 

“Indeed it is sad, and I never realized the enormity 
of such a sin. I knew that it was recorded that the 
4 wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations 
that forget God,’ hut I never thought of it as a per- 
sonal matter.” 

44 Many, I fear, do not. They know that God is 
present, hut they do not feel his presence. For this 
reason they shut him out of their thoughts and plans 
till something occurs to remind them of the words, 
4 I will he inquired of by the house of Israel,’ and of 
the command, still more startling, 4 Be still, and know 
that I am God.’ ” 

Although Mr. Robinson believed these words of 
warning necessary he did not forget that he came to 
comfort, and he spoke of the love, peace, and joy that 
possess the hearts of all true believers; of the provi- 
dential care God exercises over us, and, lastly, of the 
happy meeting of loved ones in a better world than 
ours. The widow listened attentively, and thanked 
him for his kindness and faithfulness, though she 
added, mournfully, “It is all so strange, so dark, so 
shrouded in mystery, that I fear I can never be happy 
again.” 


122 


Ebb and Flow. 


“Yes, you will, daughter. Life is, find always will 
be, subject to changes. As I told your aunt when 
her life seemed to lose its brightness, it is like the 
ebb and flow of the tide. It is ebb-tide with you 
now, but the years will pass and joys will flow in upon 
you. All will be regulated by a wise hand. We 
shall not be forgotten by Him who bore our sorrows 
and carried our griefs.” 

After the good man was gone Mrs. Haeburn re- 
membered his tremulous tones as he said those last 
words. In her own grief she had forgotten that her 
pastor was afflicted. He had lost his dearest earthly 
companion, and there was more sorrow in the near 
future. She knew that Annice had written that her 
husband was fast sinking with consumption, and she 
felt sorry that she had forgotten to inquire after Mr. 
Gilmore. “ Alas ! grief makes us selfish,” she said 
to herself ; then turning to Mark she said, “ To-morrow 
you may go to the manse and inquire for Mr. Gil- 
more’s health.” 

Mark did not need to be reminded that he was to 
pay a visit to the manse, neither was there any need 
to remind him to be mannerly, for Mark Haeburn 
was a very gentlemanly boy. Mrs. Haeburn never 
feared that her children would not know how to be- 
have, or, knowing how, would fail to do so. 

Mark found the minister in his study, and he told 
him that Mr. Gilmore was fast passing away. He 
was very grave ; he scarcely smiled on the lad, though 
he was a favorite. He would naturally feel sad at the 
prospective death of his son-in-law, and there were 
circumstances connected with the future that added to 
his sadness. Mr. Gilmore’s financial affairs were in a 


Widows and Friends. 


123 


very critical condition, and there was no refuge for 
Annice and her three children but her father’s house. 
Dear as she was to her parent, and willing as he was 
to share his last farthing with her and hers, he could 
not but remember that all too soon he might come to 
the last. Hitherto his stipend had more than sufficed 
for their simple wants, for his family had always been 
small, and his wife was an economical housekeeper. 
When his sister came to take her place she proved to 
be equally prudent, and there had been no diminution 
of the yearly savings. But a sum that was sufficient 
for a very small family would ill support that family 
augmented by four members, and Mr. Robinson, with 
all his trust, could not but feel that his means were 
inadequate to the support of so many helpless beings. 
Still, though much disturbed, he was not dismayed, 
and before Annice was a widow he felt that God 
would indeed provide for them all. Aunt Catharine 
felt that she must look around for another home, but 
her brother told her to dismiss such thoughts at least 
until she wished to go elsewhere. He well knew that 
this time was not likely to come, for they were strongly 
attached to each other. A stout-hearted woman was 
Catharine Robinson, because she trusted in One who 
strengthens those who wait upon him. She was 
cheerful as well as stout-hearted, for, whatever calam- 
ities befell herself or her friends, she never for a 
moment forgot that God reigns. The minister well 
knew her worth, and perhaps that was why he wished 
her to stay with him. There are people whose forti- 
tude we miss when they go from us, and, although we 
turn from them to a strong Helper, yet I think that 
this same great Helper does not blame us that we lean 


124 


Ebb and Flow. 


upon the strong among ourselves. It is only when 
they supplant himself, when they possess too much 
of our confidence and love, that they are taken from 
us. Mr. Robinson was not likely to be thus bound up 
in his sister; she was a needed help, not a foolish de- 
pendence, and lie knew that she would prove a bless- 
ing to liis daughter’s family. So Aunt Catharine re- 
mained at the manse to welcome and u hearten up 
Annice and the bairns,” as she herself said. 

Two weeks after his first visit Mark Raeburn was 
again sent to inquire after Mr. Gilmore, but he felt 
shy and strange as he approached the door. The 
minister was just shaking hands with liis sister, and 
then he turned and left the house. Aunt Catharine 
looked after him with tearful eyes, and then she saw 
Mark standing as if undecided whether to return home 
or to make his intended call. 

“Come in, laddie,” she said, kindly, as she led the 
way into the house. Then she added, in a sadder tone, 
“ The last has come. Poor Annice’s husband is gone. 
The funeral takes place to-morrow, and my brother will 
have to travel with all speed. lie will stay with Annice 
a few days, and then bring her and the bairns back with 
him. How is your mother this morning, laddie ? ” 

Mark, speaking for the first time, replied : “ Mother 
is well, I thank you. She has been more cheerful of 
late, but she will be right sorry to hear of Mrs. Gil- 
more’s sorrow ; I mind she aye calls her her dear friend 
Annice.” 

“ I know they are friends, dear friends. Well, they 
have passed through the same heavy trial. God grant 
that they may comfort each other, and may God in 
his tender mercy comfort and sustain them both !” 


Widows and Friends. 


125 


Mark made a short stay, and when he rose to take 
leave Miss Robinson said, “Mind and come to the 
manse after the bairns come to 11s. Bring your 
brothers and little Lilias with you. Poor bairns \ They 
will feel sad and strange as well, and you may cheer 
them up.” 

All the way home Mark kept thinking how hard it 
would be for him to leave the familiar scenes upon 
which his eyes rested, and go away to see them no 
more. Still, he thought that the little strangers would 
surely be solaced in summer-time by the bonnie hills, 
the blooming fields, and the merry woodlands of his 
own neighborhood. “ Even now,” said the boy, speak- 
ing aloud, “ even with the heavy frosts we have had 
of late, the hill-side is not so bad.” As he spoke he 
stepped aside to pick a few hardy flowers that had 
been partly sheltered by an overhanging rock. 
“Lilias will be glad to see them,” he said as he 
walked on. 

Mrs. Raeburn, for all her own grief, shed tears of 
sympathy for her friend. “ Sweet, gentle Annice,” 
she murmured ; “ we well know each other’s woes, and 
I am thankful that we know Who can heal them.” 
Then in a reverential tone she said, “ But, Master, be 
not angry with us if resignation is long in possessing 
our poor, sore hearts.” 

Very sad and very tender was the meeting between 
these two afflicted women. Both were reminded of 
their early friendships, their bridal days, their short, 
happy years of wedded life, while their common sor- 
row drew them more closely together. 

“ Dear Annice,” said Mrs. Raeburn, “ how nearly 
alike God has dealt with us. We cannot see his 


126 


Ebb and Flow. 


meaning in allowing death to come between us and 
our happiness, but it is a glorious opportunity for faith 
to triumph. Shall ours rise to meet this heavy de- 
mand upon it?” 

“ God grant it ! ” said Mr. Robinson, reverently 
raising his eyes, which he had purposely let fall that 
he might not see the two weeping in each other’s 
arms. 

Mrs. Gilmore did not immediately reply. Her 
heart was too full to speak. When she could com- 
mand her voice she said : “ God indeed must grant it 
if I attain to it; for courage and faith are alike gone 
from me.” 

“ That does not sound quite like iny own An- 
nice,” said her father, with a shadow of reproach in 
his tone. “It behooves us all to say, as did one of 
old, ‘ Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and 
shall we not receive evil ? ’ ” Then suddenly, as if re- 
lenting, he said, “ Forgive me, Annice. Hot until I 
forget the desolation of my own heart when your 
mother was taken from me will I censure you in your 
sorrow. If my sympathy can help you this old heart 
will pour itself out most gladly.” 

“ You have helped me already, father, and while 
I have you I cannot feel alone, neither can I feel ut- 
terly forlorn and hopeless.” 

“ He has helped me too,” said Mrs. Raeburn, “and 
it seems to me that we can all help each other. I 
feel this morning so grateful for the friends I still 
have, and such a conviction that it is my duty not to 
undervalue the blessings that are still mine because 
my dearest has flown, that I venture to give you my 
thoughts even in the presence of my minister.” 


Widows and Friends. 


127 


“ Thank you, Jessie,” said Mrs. Gilmore. 

And Mr. Robinson added : “ Do not hesitate to 
speak your mind in my presence. You little know 
how much good the words of my people do me. Not 
alone with ministers are the words of truth and wis- 
dom. We all need each other. Some of us are stronger 
and some of us are weaker, but the weakest among 
us is strongest in some places. W e are all members 
of one body, nor can we say to any member, ‘ I have 
no need of thee.’ No one is independent of the other, 
and all are dependent upon God, the only source of 
strength.” 


128 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

MISS CATHARINE’S MANEUVER. 

Winter had come again, and its snows were piled 
high about the manse. But not a flake found its way 
into the well-built habitation, and the cold that filled 
it gave way as fire laid hold upon the black peat. 
Innocent, ay, merry faces sat around the minister’s 
hearth, for the hearts of children are not long sad. 
They are wiser than their parents, for they hug to 
their hearts the gladness in life, and drop but hurried 
tears over its sorrow. That God wishes us to do this 
no one can doubt, but most of us are slow to learn 
that in this respect, as well as many others, we must 
be like them. 

Lewis, Mary, and Alfred Gilmore had been hav- 
ing a frolic in the wide old kitchen one evening; but 
when Aunt Catharine came in to prepare the evening 
meal they seated themselves quietly by the ingle with 
a sparkle in their eyes and a glow upon their cheeks. 

44 Well, bairns,” she said, 44 you are as quiet as mice, 
but a while ago I heard clatter enough.” 

“ Ay, auntie,” said Lewis, “ when the cat’s away 
the mice will play.” 

“ Hoot ! laddie, you must not be afraid of me.” 

“ Ho, we are not afraid of you ; but it is not right 
for children to raise a din in the ears of their elders.” 

“ You are right there, and you must aye be con- 
siderate of your grandfather’s quiet.” 


Miss Catharine’s Maneuver. 


129 


u That is what mother aye tells us, and she says we 
must not disturb you either.” 

“Well, my lad, do as she bids you, for she is a 
good mother to you all. But I do wish that she 
would enter a bit into the enjoyment of her children. 
Her mind must be diverted from her trouble, or be- 
fore winter is over she will be almost as white as the 
snow it brings us.” 

She had scarcely ceased speaking when Mrs. Gil- 
more entered. She was a tall, slender woman, and 
pale at any time. Now she was much paler than 
usual, and a sad look rested upon her countenance. 

“ Can I help you, Aunt Catharine ? ” she asked in 
a disinterested way. 

“ That you can,” replied Aunt Catharine, briskly ; 
“ you can lay the cloth and arrange the table while I 
prepare the food. You can hurry a bit if you will, 
for I am well on with my part of the work.” 

Mrs. Gilmore scarcely credited her hearing, for an- 
swers to similar questions had been, “ No, dearie, 
no.” But Aunt Catharine had suddenly changed her 
mind. She had just come to the conclusion that her 
niece must be employed at least a part of the time. Only 
that morning she had given the little serving-maid 
leave to go home for a month, and she was strongly 
inclined to dispense with her services altogether. 

Mrs. Gilmore “hurried a bit” as she was advised, 
and a pink color came upon her cheeks. Little Mary 
noticed it and said : 

“ Why, mother, how bonnie you look ! ” 

The mother smiled on the child just as her father 
came in, and the pleased look on her face made them 
all happy. 

9 


130 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ Well, Annice,” he said, “.how natural you look ! 
I would not have missed seeing you thus for a pound 
sterling.” 

Aunt Catharine was delighted with the success of 
her plan as she saw that her niece’s cheerfulness did 
not immediately pass away. All through the even- 
ing she talked quite like herself, and once she laughed 
outright at some sally of the children. 

There was a glad ring in the minister's prayer that 
night, a heartier thankfulness in his thanksgiving, a 
warmth in all his words, as if he had gotten closer to 
the great heart of God. He did not feel the usual 
awe as he said, “ Thy will be done,” but the sweet 
peace that found expression in the words, “ Thy 
blessed will be done.” All arose from their knees 
with a new strength, a new comfort. Even Mrs. 
Gilmore repeated to herself : 

“ 4 How no chastening for the present seemeth to be 
joyous, but grievous : nevertheless, afterward it yield- 
eth the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them 
which are exercised thereby. Wherefore lift up the 
hands which hang down, and the feeble knees.’ ” 

The family soon separated for the night, and that 
to rest, for sleep falls easily upon the eyelids of those 
who close the day by a prayer filled with gratitude 
for past blessings and trust in the Giver of every 
good for future mercies. 

It was the beginning of better days for Mrs. Gilr 
more, and for the minister as well, for it marred his 
own peace to see his Annice so disconsolate. The 
little serving-maid did not return, and Annice Gil- 
more took up the duties that she had been accustomed 
to perform in her father’s house under the careful 


Miss Catharine’s Maneuver. 131 

training of her mother, and she found satisfaction in 
the thought that she was not wholly a burden to her 
father. She was convinced that the employment of 
her time was a benefit to her in many w 7 ays ; her 
health improved, and with renewed health came hope 
and courage. 

When spring came it was Mrs. Gilmore herself 
who showed her children the beauty of the woods 
and fields. Happiness again brooded over the manse. 
Hot that the dead were forgotten, but that the living 
were appreciated. God very seldom deprives us of 
all human sympathy and companionship. And we 
need never be deprived of the sympathy of our Elder 
Brother, nor of the indwelling of the Holy Spirit 
which is itself the “ Comforter,” nor of the fatherly 
presence of God, the parent of all. 

Spring, with its long and balmy days, seemed to 
lessen the distance between the Raeburn cottage and 
the manse. The two families were very glad to meet 
so often, and scarcely a day passed that some one did 
not cross the meadows and the brook that lay be- 
tween the two homes. Perhaps it was little Lilias, 
who went to carry a jug of cream to the minister’s 
folks, perhaps it was Mark, with a fowl for the minis- 
ter’s dinner, or the boys from the manse came to play 
with the boys at the cottage. Mrs. Gilmore fre- 
quently called on Mrs. Raeburn when walking with 
all her children. So they kept up the intimacy. 

Even Aggie paid a visit to the minister. This caused 
some little wonder to the Raeburn boys, for they could 
not imagine what took her there. But she told no 
one that she went to give her pastor three pounds of 
her hard-earned wages. 


132 


Ebb and Flow. 


“O, Aggie, I am afraid you can ill afford to give 
me this,” said the minister. 

u Dinna worry about that, sir. It was earned in 
the good old times when master was alive, and my 
wage was twenty-five pounds a year. You are wel- 
come to it, and I willna miss it, for though I dinna 
take from the mistress but half my old wage I have 
something nice laid by for a rainy day.” 

“ Well, I will take it, and may God bless you, Ag- 
gie. I suppose, you guessed that I have not much 
laid by myself. But I am not at the bottom of it yet, 
and although I don’t expect it to last like the wid- 
ow’s cruse of oil, still I do think there will be a way 
provided.” 

“You are right, sir. I am convinced that you 
willna go wanting. You ken better than I do the 
psalmist’s testimony, that though he was old he had 
never seen the righteous forsaken nor his seed beg- 
ging bread.” 

Aggie went her way, little thinking what a train 
of thought her words had awakened. 

“This is another proof of human kindness and 
God’s providential care,” he mused. “ Why are we, 
his children, ever unhappy, since we are linked to him 
by indissoluble ties ? We suffer nothing in vain, since 
even our chastisements are needful. We cannot suf- 
fer any real loss. If it be friends, we shall meet them 
where partings cannot come ; if it be riches, they but 
take wings so that we may drop the shadow and 
grasp the reality ; if it be pride, self-esteem, or the 
praise of men, it is but dross that must be burned 
away that the true gold may appear. Any thing that 
is worth grieving after cannot be taken from us ; it 


Miss Catharine’s Maneuver. 133 

goes with us into the other life to grow and expand 
in the sunlight of God’s presence. Yes, we are 
linked to God and his own eternity, and even were 
our earthly pilgrimages much harder we should not 
despair. But God knows our frailties, and he lias 
compassion upon us. He often shows us the silver 
lining in the dark cloud above us, that our hearts 
quake not with fear and our faith fail not. How 
slowly we learn these lessons of trust ! My silver 
locks and bald pow are a witness against me. O, 
God, let me never more doubt thy kindness, thy lov- 
ing-kindness, even though thou hast hotter fires to 
cleanse me from earth-born desires and affections ! ” 


134 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XX. 

TO FOLLOW THE PATTERN. 

Old Peter Morrison had during all these years 
done the gardening for the families at the manse and 
at the Raeburn cottage. The summer after Lieuten- 
ant Raeburn’s death Mark suddenly came to the 
conclusion that he was no longer a little boy, but was 
past twelve and quite able to work with his hands. 
Accordingly, he begged that he and his brothers 
might be intrusted with much of the garden-work. 
Influenced by this example, Lewis Gilmore went to 
work in the manse garden. Old Peter bestowed 
upon the boys many words of praise for their faithful 
work ; but he began to see that before many years his 
services would not be needed at either place. lie often 
sighed in secret over the prospect of leaving his pleas- 
ant home and seeking employment among strangers. 

“You see,” he said, explaining the matter to Ju- 
dith one day, “I see what is coming. The lads will 
soon take care of the gardens a’together, and you 
needna be reminded that our hoard of savings is gone. 
First or last it was sent to that lonely slieiling far 
awa’ upon the mountain where our poor Judy suf- 
fered. Just to think that she has been awa’ for 
twice twelve months in that state we know so little 
about. O, woman, there is naething so strange as 
death! We stand by the bedside o’ friends, we hold 
their hands, we anticipate their wishes, and yet they 


To Follow the Pattern. 135 

maun go out alane into the unknown, the untried 
state that awaits us a’.” 

He sat for a time sadly musing on the death of 
his daughter ; then, thinking tenderly of- the little 
one she had bequeathed to their care, he crossed the 
room, and looking down on the sleeping child, he 
said, “ She is like her mither.” Then he added with 
a heavy sigh, “ God bless the bairn ! She maun be 
taken care oh” 

“ Peter, Peter! What ails you, man, that you are 
so down-hearted the day ? The bairn will be taken 
care o’; we are not gaing to starve,” Judith replied, 
looking up from her work. 

She was making some little garments for Holly, 
and though she had been very painstaking the work 
progressed slowly. It was a long time since she had 
fashioned garments for her own child, and her fin- 
gers seemed to have lost their skill. Finally she held 
it up and said, “ There, that is the best I can do ; but 
if our Judy could see it she would think it an ill-made 
gown.” 

“ Such things wouldna trouble her noo,” said 
old Peter, who had resumed his seat at the ingle. 

“ You are right there, na doot. Neither would 
she worry as you hae but noo done aboot ways and 
means of caring for her wee lass. By this time she 
kens mony things that were dark and mysterious. 
She is satisfied, having awakened in His likeness.” 

Old Peter took up the subject and added, “Ay, 
and she is beyond all these cliangefu’ feelings that 
lead us ane hour upon the mountain-top and the 
next down in the depths. Whiles I am strong in the 
faith and I can say with St. Paul liimsel’, ‘None of 


136 


Ebb and Flow. 


these things move me,’ and whiles I am weary for 
some surer token than the word o’ God gies me, 
that neither I nor mine shall come to want. I take 
shame to myself that this is sae. O, the weakness o’ 
human nature ! ” 

“ That is what we maun a’ bewail, Peter ; but life, 
you ken, is at best but a warfare. ‘Wi’oot are 
fightings, wi’in are fears.’ But this even is far bet- 
ter than to have that easy sailing that gets ane aff the 
right course and so ‘drowns him in perdition.’ If we 
take a’ our grievances in the right spirit our hearts 
will give oot a sweeter incense in the nostrils of Him 
who, if he does not send our griefs, at least allows 
them for our betterment.” 

Here the conversation was interrupted by the 
entrance of Lilias Baeburn. Lilias was very fond of 
Dolly, and in a few moments the little one sat up, 
rubbed her eyes, and stretched out her hands toward 
her grandfather. 

“ O, you bit lassie, you ken weel who is aye ready 
to take you,” he said, tilting his chair forward and 
going at once to lift her out of the cradle. 

Lilias often held Dolly in her own small lap, and 
now she smiled at the child and patted her knees by 
way of invitation. But all to no purpose, for Dolly 
laid her face in her grandfather’s neck with the 
utmost show of contentment. Peter had already in- 
dulged in a long nooning, and Judith began to glance 
uneasily toward the clock. Peter understood her 
meaning and replied, “I ken, wife, I ken; but wlia 
could break awa’ f rae this wee lass ? ” Then he gave 
Judith a look that meant, “Watch her noo,” and 
gently drawing the child from her place he said, 


To Follow the Pattern. 


137 


“ Come, wee ane, jump doon ; grandfather must go.” 
But the child only clung closer to him. This per- 
formance was repeated several times till the old man 
laughed heartily, and then, pleased and happy, he 
caught her to his breast and said, “ Bless your wee 
heart, you are my bit sunbeam ! ” The next minute 
he set her down, for the child evidently knew that 
the play-spell was over. 

Lilias now easily persuaded Dolly to go to her, as 
the busy grandmother made no effort to draw her to 
her side. Although Judith Morrison was too con- 
stantly employed to fondle Dolly as the little one 
would have liked she was never too busy to smile 
upon her, and as Dolly and Lilias passed a long, 
pleasant hour together Judith’s eyes often followed 
them, and she was happy in their happiness. 

Like many of her country-women, Judith was little 
understood. She passed for a grave, taciturn person, 
one who was moral and religious ; but she was not 
thought to be sympathetic. When great griefs fell 
upon her nearest neighbors, when there was sorrow 
at the Raeburn home and sorrow at the manse, Judith 
shed no tears with the friends, and her words were 
few, but only God knew what she felt in her heart. 
It renewed her own grief for Judy, and often the 
silvered head was bowed low before the Father of all 
mercies that he would verify his promise to the 
widow and fatherless, that out of sorrow and trial 
and seeming disfavor might come forth a greater 
strength because of the manifestations of the divine 
Spirit in the souls of the afflicted. O, these hidden 
lives, who can calculate their influence? How many un- 
wary travelers go safely through life’s journey because 


138 


Ebb and Flow. 


backed and guarded by the prayers of these silent, 
faithful Christians! “Ye are the salt of the earth,” 
said our Saviour. O, that all who bear the name of 
Christ would be careful to exert this saving, whole- 
some influence ! 

Lilias had stayed the hour allowed her by her mother 
and had long since gone. The sun was gone too ; it 
had lost itself in the west, and Dolly’s eyes had just 
closed for the night when Peter returned to his home. 
His day’s work was over ; he had no need to hurry 
now. But he did not see his little granddaughter, 
and his first words were : 

“ Is the wee ane asleep ? I thought to hae a bit 
play-spell wd’ her yet.” 

“ Ay, she is asleep, and better sae. I could but 
think as I looked at her that we would do weel to 
consign ourselves to our heavenly Father’s keeping 
wd’ the same trust she showed as she lay back in my 
arms and said, ‘ Dolly will sleep noo.’ And I said to 
myself, ‘Best thou likewise, Judith Morrison, for the 
eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath thee are 
the everlasting arms.’ ” 

“ O, Judith, Judith, that we could aye remember 
this ! ” 

“And why should we not? We who read God’s 
holy book have no right to forget the words of en- 
couragement it contains. We do not forget the prom- 
ises o’ our earthly friends, and yet we fail to remem- 
ber what the high and holy God has recorded.” 

“You have been thinking o’ my want o’ faith the 
day, I see.” 

“ Ay, your words set me thinking, Peter ; but I am 
not blaming you alane or above ithers. I so often 


To Follow the Pattern. 


139 


think o’ the wails and repinings that rise to the ears 
o’ Almighty God, and sometimes I doubt if there is 
as muckle praise as murmuring.” 

Peter remained quiet for a long time, and then he 
said : “ Eh, what sounds maun be rising ! I never 
thought muckle aboot it till noo ; but it is even waur 
than you say. Think o’ the angry wards, the false- 
hoods, the cursing, the obscenity, as weel as the mur- 
murings, Judith. Truly oor Father has great for- 
bearance! It is a wonder that mony places dinna 
share the fate o’ guilty Sodom. Weel, nane o’ us are 
as good as we should be ; but we hae a perfect Pat- 
tern ; let us try to follow him.” 


140 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

IN SCHOOL-DAYS. 

There is a period in the life of most children when 
school seems to be the most important thing to them, 
and it was so with the Raeburn and Gilmore children 
at the time of which we write. Some of them cared 
more for study than others, but all were made to un- 
derstand that knowledge was essential. And, unlike 
many of the poor class, their school-life was not inter- 
rupted in summer-time by the pressure of manual 
labor. The boys found the mornings sufficiently long 
for their garden-work, and the little girls had but few 
duties, and these were very light. Part of the dis- 
tance to the school their way lay in the same direction, 
as the school-house was situated a quarter of a mile 
beyond the manse. The minister’s people were often 
amused while watching the children come and go, for 
four of them walked in pairs. No matter how many 
of their school-fellows joined them, Norman and Mary, 
Lewis and Lilias would always walk side by side. 

The usual round of school-life is rather monotonous. 
Mark looked forward eagerly to the time when he 
should be a man and capable of helping his mother 
with the expenses of the family. Little Alfred Gil- 
more found school-days very irksome. He loved free- 
dom ; he liked out-door life too well to be shut up 
with his books. He envied the birds as they flitted 
by the open windows; he even envied little Tommy 


In School-Days. 


141 


Burns as he kept liis master’s sheep on an upland 
pasture in sight of the school-house. The sheep he 
could hardly distinguish ; they looked like so many 
small stones in the distance. Tommy and his dog 
were still less discernible ; but Alfred knew they were 
there, probably lying side by side in the little wood 
that skirted the pasture-land, and listening to the lull- 
ing sound of brook and bee. On the other hand, 
Walter Raeburn loved his studies too well. He 
would pore over his books, and it was almost impos- 
sible for his brothers to call him away from them to 
join in play. He was very fond of sitting on an old 
gray rock in the back part of the garden. Another 
favorite spot was a little knoll' beyond the orchard and 
just within the hedge-row. This knoll went by the 
name of Walter’s Hillock. It was no unusual thing for 
him to sit there till the western light grew dim and 
night settled down. Then he would slowly come 
toward the house with a volume of his favorite poems 
in his hand. 

In their early boyhood Walter and Norman had 
been almost constant companions, but as their tastes 
began to differ they drifted apart. Norman was a 
sturdy lad, as straight as an arrow, and he much re- 
sembled his soldier father. Walter was more deli- 
cately built ; his face was very pale, and his rapid 
growth and stooped shoulders occasioned considerable 
remark. 

“It is all owing to the books and the hillock, 
mother,” said Mark, one day ; “ if you will agree to 
lock up the first cause I will dig away the second 
one.” 

Walter smiled good-naturedly and said, “Don’t 


142 


Ebb and Flow. 


meddle with the hillock, Mark ; I would be lost 
without it.” 

“ The hillock is well enough if you would not stay 
so late upon it,” answered his mother, and they began 
to talk of other things. 

Mrs. Raeburn was happy in her children, but she 
remembered the words of her pastor too well to live 
for them alone. Not in vain had she been afflicted ; 
not in vain had she suffered. She found consolation 
for all her troubles. She believed that the psalmist 
had truly expressed the condition of the trusting, 
obedient child of God wiien he said : “ Great peace 
have they which love thy law, and nothing shall offend 
them.” Little by little had crept out the old leaven 
of sin, self-will, and unbelief, and little by little had 
crept in peace, joy, meekness, and many fruits of the 
Spirit. 

Aggie was delighted with her mistress’s progress 
in the Christian course, for Aggie, though filling the 
place of a servant, was nevertheless a true friend. 
She looked for opportunities to sow the good seed of 
the kingdom, for she watched for souls as “those who 
must give an account.” Especially did she do this in 
the family where she was employed. Nor were her 
modest attempts for its good undervalued, as the fol- 
lowing conversation will show. 

It was nearly time for the children to return from 
school one summer afternoon, when Mrs. Raeburn 
turned to Aggie and asked, “ Aggie, what do you 
think of my bairns — of their spiritual condition, I 
mean ? I ask you because I know you have great in- 
terest in my children and are faithful to them in all 
respects, spiritual as well as temporal.” 


In School-Days. 


143 


“No words, dear mistress, could give me more 
pleasure than those you have just spoken, and I hum- 
bly trust that I deserve them in some degree. In an- 
swer to your question, then, I think there is little 
doubt about our Walter, poor lad! ” 

“ Why do you say poor lad ? ” inquired the mother, 
anxiously. 

“I canna tell just why I said it. But Walter is 
too thin and pale ; still, he may mend as the years 
come and go.” 

“ Perhaps so. Let us hope and pray that he may.” 

“ I pray for a’ the bairns ; they lie very near my 
heart. But if there is one nearer than another it is 
Walter, and you may be sure that I dinna forget to 
ask God that he may become strong and hearty like 
the rest.” 

“ Aggie, you are a good soul, and your presence is 
often helpful to me. Especially is this so when I see 
your courage and cheerfulness in times of trouble. I 
find myself looking toward you, even leaning upon you. 
Let me say for your encouragement that earnest, fer- 
vent piety will have an influence wherever it is exer- 
cised ; it matters not if it finds its medium through 
people of high or low degree ; and I often think that 
many who claim to be Christians quench the Holy 
Spirit and thus dwarf their own lives.” 

“ I have thought of that mony times, though I 
couldna express it so week How fast the world would 
be converted if a’ who profess the Lord Jesus would 
let God work in and through them according to the 
good pleasure of his will ! — if they would allow them- 
selves to become a channel, you ken, for the working 
of the Spirit.” 


Ebb and Flow. 


144 

“Yes, Aggie, it is fearful to think how we hinder 
the cause we ought to help.” 

Just here the children were seen coming. They 
were not little any longer, though they were still 
called the bairns. Mark was nearly his father’s height, 
and Walter was still taller. Aggie noticed this for 
the first time, and she remarked to her mistress, 
“Walter is even taller than Mark. The lad grows 
too fast ; that maun be why he isna stout.” 

Norman and Lilias, who had lingered a little behind 
the others to take leave of the Gilmores, came racing 
up the path, each trying to outrun the other. 

“ They have something to tell now,” said Aggie. 
Then going to the door she said : “ Fie, fie ! Lilias, 
you ar£ too big a lass to run like that.” 

“Well, Norman shall not tell it,” she said, laughing 
and blushing all at once. 

Norman opened his lips as if to tell the secret, but 
he only said, “Lewis — ” when Lilias put her hand 
over his mouth. 

“ What about Lewis ? ” asked Aggie, who rather en- 
joyed the fun. 

Norman forced Lilias’s hand from his mouth and 
said, “ Lewis said Lilias was the best and the bonniest 
lassie in the whole school.” 

“ I can weel believe that,” said Aggie, laughing. 

“Well, can you believe that Norman kissed Mary 
this afternoon when they were picking flowers?” 
asked Lilias. 

“Well, Lilias, if you must see every thing you 
need not turn tell-tale.” 

“ That sounds well of you, Norman, seeing you first 
turned tell-tale yourself.” 


In School-Days. 


145 


“ Whist, bairns, you make too much ado with your 
nonsense,” warned Aggie. 

“Mother,” said Walter, “the master has offered a 
prize to the one who will recite the most perfect les- 
sons during the term. Shall I try for it ? ” 

“ No, lad, no. You are doing well enough without 
putting forth any extra effort. Let the prize fall to 
whom it may, and content yourself without it.” 

“ That is what I told him,” said Mark ; “ for what 
with the studying he does already and the reading he 
will always do he is not likely to allow himself many 
play-spells.” 

“ I have a mind to try for it myself, only I know I 
could never win it,” said Norman. 

“ That you couldn’t,” spoke both his brothers in a 
breath. 

“ It will do him no harm to try, and he can but 
miss it,” said Mrs. Raeburn. “ I am not afraid that 
Norman will study too hard.” 

“ I might as well take that prize, only I don’t want 
to contend against Lewis. His heart seems to be set 
on taking it to please his mother and his grandfather, 
and our Lilias, as well, I suppose,” said Mark. 

Lilias, finding herself referred to, quickly retorted, 
“Don’t feel such pity for Lewis. Save it for your- 
self when he carries off the prize for all your trying.” 

“ Lilias, you must not be so ready to dispute,” said 
the gentle mother. Then turning the subject she 
said, “ Peter has had news to-day. A young kins- 
man of his, Angus Donley by name, is on his way 
home from Australia. He is a sister’s son and the 
only one left of her family. Peter says the lad does 
not know they are dead, for he has been gone seven 
10 


146 


Ebb and Flow. 


years. Peter supposed that Angus was dead him- 
self.” 

“When will he get here?” asked Norman, who 
was always fond of news. 

“ That is hard telling. The letter was posted at a 
port in Australia, and he wrote that the ship would 
make several stops on the way home. It may be half 
a year before he reaches here.” 

“ I suppose Peter is glad ? ” said Mark, the only 
one who cared to question further. 

“ I suppose so. He seemed quite excited when he 
told me. You know Peter is very poor ; that is why 
he seems so sad and low-spirited at times. I think he 
would be worse still in this respect if it were not for 
Judith. I am in hopes that this nephew will be a 
help and comfort in their old age. You know we 
could not do much for them since your father died, 
and the minister’s folks still less. This coming of the 
nephew may be God’s way to provide for them.” 

“ Well, I shall be right glad when they see better 
days. But, of course, we are not to blame because 
they are poor.” 

“ No, but I have worried over them a good deal,” 
said Mrs. Raeburn. “ Judith has had great faith and 
patience, but I have pitied her. I believe Aggie 
gives them money, and broad pieces too. She has 
not bought herself a new gowm these three years, and 
you know she is as fond of them as any one else. 
The other day, as I came by Peter’s door, I heard him 
ask Judith where she got that broad piece, and she 
replied, ‘ Where I have gotten many others, from her 
who aye says, “ Dinna let on now.” ’ And you know 
these are our Aggie’s own words. God bless her ! ” 


In School-Days. 


147 


Just then Aggie herself entered the room looking 
as happy as she deserved, which is saying a great 
deal. She had been out for a run, as she said, and 
she could not refrain from saying : 

u Weel, is this na a bright world and a bonnie ? ” 
“Yes, Aggie, this world is bright and bonnie for 
the good, for it is as we look at it,” said Mrs. Iiaeburn. 

“ That is as you say, nae doot ; but it maun, in- 
deed, be a dour body that canna see something in 
nature to admire to-day.” 


148 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE TIDE EBBS. 

The trouble hinted at in the last chapter was not 
long in overtaking the Raeburn family. Walter had 
become “ ainaist a shadow,” as Aggie said, and all his 
friends saw that it was true, though their lips refused 
to say so much, lest their words should make it doubly 
sure. School had long been given up, and the prize 
had long since passed into the hands of Lewis Gil- 
more. But the Raeburns cared little whither it went, 
except that Lilias found a passing pleasure in the 
thought that Lewis had won it. All were filled with 
forebodings. Walter himself seemed to understand 
all their fears, but he was very quiet. 

One day he sat upon the knoll with an open book 
in his hand, but he was not reading in it now. His 
mother, who sat watching him, saw that he was not 
reading, but he wrote with a pencil upon a slip of 
paper. Her fond, fearful heart said, “ Eh, but they 
are parting lines, I fear ! ” 

The tears started to her eyes, and she went to her 
room. She felt that the dreaded separation was near 
at hand, and she threw herself on her knees and 
broke forth into an earnest, tear-choked prayer that 
God would help her to part from her child if he saw 
fit to take him. She prayed that Walter might have 
no dread of death nor of the beyond, and soon a little 
comfort stole into her heart ; for she tried to think 


The Tide Ebbs. 


149 


that he was only going on before, and when they 
met again they would not be separated. 

Mark had been seeking his mother to ask her ad- 
vice about some arrangement of the garden, and as 
he was about to knock at her door he heard her voice 
in prayer. He reverently removed his cap and stood 
with his head bent forward that no words might es- 
cape his hearing. When the prayer was ended he 
walked softly away, and did not trouble her with his 
errand. He felt great pity for his mother, yet he 
was relieved that she knew the worst. He had often 
wondered if her eyes were fully open to Walter’s 
danger, and he feared that she might be indulging in 
false hopes. Another thing that troubled him was if 
Walter knew the truth about his condition. He was 
not long in suspense, however, for one morning of 
that same week, when the two brothers had risen from 
their beds, Mark noticed that Walter was leaning 
against the wall, and his face was pale and sad. 

“Why, Walter, what is amiss?” Mark asked, 
quickly. 

“ I was thinking how the sun smiles down upon my 
hillock ; but, Mark, I shall find my way there no more. 
I must go back to bed now, for I feel too weak to 
stand.” 

“ Why do you feel so badly this morning, Walter ?” 

“ It is the end approaching. Haven’t you seen it 
coming ? I hoped you had.” 

“ I have, dear laddie, I have,” said Mark, bursting 
into tears. 

“ Then so far it is well. How about mother and 
the others ? Do they know ? ” 

“ Mother knows, and so does Horman ; but Lilias 


150 


Ebb and Flow. 


has no such thoughts. It was only yesterday, when 
Norman refused to go to the wood with her, she said, 
‘ Wait till Walter is better, and see if I will have to 
ask him twice to do me a favor.’ I know that Nor- 
man knew all, for his eyes filled and his lips quiv- 
ered. He beat back any show of feeling and said to 
Lilias, who was putting on her hat, ‘ I suppose I can 
go this once.’ ” 

Walter listened intently, and then he said : “ Poor 
lassie, poor light-hearted lassie ! ” Then he went to 
the bed and lay down upon it. 

Mark went down-stairs and told bis mother the sad 
news. Not much was said in the family, for the 
others tried to bear up for the sake of Lilias. Her 
mother tried to break the news gently. At first 
Lilias would not believe that her brother would die, 
but when the truth was forced upon her' she was 
overcome with grief, and she wanted to go directly to 
Walter. Mrs. Haeburn detained her, saying: “ Do 
not seek your brother at once ; wait until you are 
calmer ; it will be easier for both.” 

So Lilias waited till the morning was well advanced ; 
then she tapped lightly at Walter’s door. 

u Come in,” said Walter, and his voice was as 
cheerful as usual. 

When Lilias entered her face was still sad and her 
eyes were red with weeping. Walter smiled and said, 
“ So you have come to see your idle brother?” 

“ O, Walter, I wish that nothing worse than idle- 
ness kept you in bed ! What makes you so much 
worse this morning ? ” 

“ I am not much worse, Lilias. I have been scarcely 
able to rise for several mornings, but I wanted to be 


The Tide Ebbs. 


151 


out in the sunshine as long as possible. Besides, I 
thought you would grieve if I took my bed, and I 
knew that time would come soon enough.” 

“ Too soon, too soon ! We cannot spare you, dear 
brother. I cannot see why one should be stricken 
down at your age.” 

“ No, you cannot see, neither can I see ; but God 
sees. He knows best, sister. You surely have been 
taught that, Lilias.” 

“Yes, I have been taught that; but it is hard to 
believe it when we are called to give up our dear 
ones.” 

“ True belief makes no distinctions, Lilias. It is 
not enough to believe that God knows best when our 
neighbor is afflicted ; when sorrow strikes our own 
hearts we must still believe that he knows and orders 
best. We gain nothing by questioning and chafing, 
but we lose much of the light and consolation that is 
waiting for us.” 

“ O, Walter ! you are going away from us for sure, 
for your talk is not natural for one so young,” said 
Lilias, bursting into tears again. “ I will go now, 
for I must not fret you with my tears,” she managed 
to say. Then she stooped and left a warm kiss upon 
his forehead. 

As the afternoon wore away Mrs. Raeburn sat at 
the open door thinking of her sick son. Hearing a 
step, she raised her eyes to see her minister. Her 
first exclamation was, u O, Mr. Robinson, it is ebb- 
tide again ! ” 

His face was sad as he answered : “So I hear, 
daughter. Well, the years have been faithfully at 
their work. They bring joy and they bring grief, 


152 


Ebb and Flow. 


and they must needs bring somewhat more of one 
than of the other in this changeful life of ours. If 
we implicitly trust the Disposer of events we shall be 
at rest, whatever the years bring.” 

Mr. Robinson went into Walter’s room and was 
closeted with him for a long time. Their voices were 
heard alternately at lirst, then followed the reading 
of the word and the voice of prayer. When the pas- 
tor was about to leave the cottage he said to the sor- 
rowing mother, “ Be of good cheer ; few at threescore 
and ten are as ripe for the kingdom of heaven as 
Walter is.” 

“ That is well,” she sighed, after he was gone ; “ but 
does not the dear boy dread death ? That is what I 
long to know.” 

Walter was very quiet and patient all through his 
sickness. He had a long talk with each of his broth- 
ers, the purport of which was known only to them- 
selves. With his mother he talked but little. Silence 
seemed best to both, and only the yearning look in 
the mother’s eyes told how she dreaded the parting. 
And it came even sooner than they feared. Walter 
had been confined to his room but two weeks when 
he had a hemorrhage of the lungs, and after this he 
sank rapidly. He had a painful night, and the morn- 
ing found him very weak. Steps were taken softly 
in his room. He noticed no one, and Mrs. Raeburn 
said to Aggie, “ Think you this is death ? ” 

“ Ay, he is even now passing into the ‘ valley of the 
shadow,’ ” said Aggie, in an awe-struck whisper. 

“ But I have no fear, no dread, Aggie,” came 
faintly from the lips of the dying boy. 

“ The Lord be praised ! ” replied Aggie. 


The Tide Ebbs. 


153 


“ The Lord indeed be praised ! ” repeated Mrs. 
Raeburn ; “ for he has heard my prayer and granted 
me the sign that we shall meet again.” 

She stooped and kissed lier dying son on the fore- 
head, where already the death-seal was set. “ Walter, 
lad, we shall meet again,” she said, softly. 

With much effort he replied, “Ay, in the kingdom 
of God.” 

And with the name of God upon his lips he went 
out of this life to be forever with him. 


154 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

ANGUS AT LAST! 

Ten years had passed since Peter Morrison began 
to fear that he would come to want, yet there was 
plenty of meal in the chest and light and warmth 
around his hearth. The faithful Judith was still at 
his side, and the prattling two-year old Dolly was a 
lass of twelve years and a comfort to her fast-aging 
grandparents. But Peter was still ill at ease. What 
was to be the end with nothing laid by for helpless 
age ? Where did Angus Donley stay ? Was he dead 
and gone like the rest of his kin ? ” These were ques- 
tions that Peter vexed himself with night and day. 
One winter afternoon he said to Judith, “ I suppose I 
might as weel expect to come alongside o’ a will-o’- 
the-wisp as to come up wi’ any good luck. Pleasant 
things are aye happening to some folk; ay, and to 
them who need it least,” he added bitterly. 

“ Peter, Peter, you should have been called Thomas, 
and doubting Thomas at that. What would you hae ? 
Here we are safe and snug and warm, with no lack 
o’ meat yet. Can you na trust that it will aye be as 
it has been ? ” 

“But, Judith, by and by we canna work at a’; 
think of that ! ” x 

“ I needna think of that, nor need you. Hae you 
so soon forgotten the siller Aggie Simpson has put 
in my hand, and she neither kith nor kin of ours? 


Angus at Last! 


155 


Hae you forgotten that the very ravens were com- 
manded to feed the faithful ? I am afraid we canna 
be called faithful, but faithless, if we keep murmuring 
and complaining.’’ 

“ That is so,” Peter assented. Then he rose quite 
cheerfully and went about the work that was yet to 
be done for the night. He had finished it, and was 
just hanging up his bonnet when a sleigh stopped be- 
fore the door. 

Judith looked out, and she said, “ Peter, there is a 
man getting oot at oor door, and the driver is setting 
out a chest. Should it be Angus ? ” 

The bonnet was quickly put upon Peter’s head, and 
he reached the gate before the stranger, who was 
slightly lame. There must have been a look of in- 
quiry upon Peter’s face, for the other said, “Ay, Un- 
cle Peter, it is Angus.” 

“ God bless you, lad ! ” he said, shaking hands 
warmly. Then he asked, “ How comes it that you 
are lame, man ? ” 

“ That would be a long story to tell now. I will 
gie it to you later on.” 

But the evening was far spent before Angus could 
be brought to speak of himself. He had many ques- 
tions to ask about his mother and his sister, who had 
died during his absence. He wept much, and Judith 
said to herself, “ The cold, wide world hasna hardened 
his heart, at ony rate.” And the good woman resolved 
that if he wished to be to them as a son she would be 
glad to grant him such a place in her affections. 

When at length he told his own story it was this : 
He had been injured by a falling timber before he left 
Australia. He was taken to a hospital, where he had 


156 


Ebb and Flow. 


good care, but the injured limb refused to heal en- 
tirely. He concluded his story by saying, “ I suppose 
I inaun limp as long as I live, but you maunna think 
that I hae come here to be supported. I hae a nice 
bit o’ silver laid by, and I am weel able to work. I 
thought I would be able to help my old mither, but 
she is where she needs no help o’ mine ; so I will 
share with you, my good uncle, instead.” 

Peter scarcely knew wdiat to say. He hung his 
head while he mumbled his thanks. He felt ashamed 
as he thought of his distrustful words that afternoon. 
Judith, too, remembered them, but she never alluded 
to them. It was Peter himself who confessed to An- 
gus how unbelieving he had been, and how unworthy 
he felt. And though Angus had no fortune he had 
a snug little sum laid by, and Peter felt that he had 
cause to be thankful. 

The next morning when the old man wakened he 
became conscious of a feeling of relief. “ What has 
come over me that I feel sae light-hearted ? ” he asked 
himself. “ O, I ken : Angus has come hame and 
brought siller wi’ him ! ” 

And truly the old man was light-hearted. He did 
not dislike hard work, but he dreaded the time when 
the work would cease. Judith had often told him 
that more precious than mines of gold and silver 
were the promises of God’s providential care. But 
in vain she quoted, “ I will never leave thee nor forsake 
thee ; ” “ Bread shall be given him ; his water shall 
be sure,” and many like promises. “ I ken, I ken,” he 
would reply, but the next hour he would pine for his 
well-filled purse, though he never failed to add, “ Mind 
you, I grudge na the siller to our Judy, poor lass.” 


Angus at Last! 


157 


But when Angus came lie ceased to mourn for his 
savings, and fell in with his nephew’s plan of sharing 
home and purse together. As for Angus, he seemed 
perfectly happy. He had been a wanderer so long 
that a home of any kind seemed very desirable to him, 
and Judith Morrison had the faculty of making even 
a poor home a pleasant one. Besides, Angus was very 
fond of little Dolly. He had once been much at- 
tached to Judy, and the child was so much like 
her mother that he w T as at once drawn toward 
her. The cottage seemed much more cheerful on 
account of its new inmate, for money . was not all 
he brought to it. He had a genial disposition and a 
fund of information. Besides all this he was young 
and strong, and his lameness did not interfere with 
his general health. He was a great comfort to the 
old people, and they soon felt that he was all their 
own, theirs and Dolly’s. 


158 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

CHANGING HER WORLD. 

The changeable weather of another spring-time had 
come, and it brought considerable sickness to the in- 
mates of the manse. Aggie Simpson was more than 
faithful to her minister’s family, and she forgot her- 
self so far that they often said, “ Take care of your- 
self, Aggie.” But Aggie was strong and well, and 
she had no thought but that she would remain so. 
Once she was returning home on the edge of the 
evening. The weather was bad, she knew, and she 
knew also that she had a heavy cold already. “ But 
what is that to Aggie Simpson ? ” she said to still the 
uneasiness she began to feel. “ My ! but the air is 
heavy with fog and mist,” she said to herself, and fur- 
ther on she spoke again : “ The ice maun. have grown 
soft upon the wee burnie, and it is not such a wee bur- 
nie, either, for the water was deep when it froze over.” 
She stepped with the utmost caution, and she was 
nearly across when the ice gave way ; she stepped 
through and the water poured in over the tops of 
her shoes. She hurried on home as fast as possible, 
and tried to laugh the whole thing olf ; but she began 
to feel chilly already. Mrs. Raeburn was frightened, 
and she told Aggie to go to bed at once. But the old 
servant would not be persuaded to leave any part of 
her duty, and when at last she went up to her little 
room with a bowl of herb-tea she felt really ill. In 


Changing Her World. 


159 


the morning she felt unable to rise, and Mrs. Raeburn 
sent for the doctor in spite of Aggie’s remonstrance. 
Dr. Blair pronounced Aggie’s sickness congestion of 
the lungs, and added, “ She is a very sick woman.” 

Mrs. Raeburn and Lilias spared no pains for her 
comfort, and Mark and Norman were none the less 
anxious. They hovered about the doctor, saying with 
the simplicity and earnestness of children, “ Don’t let 
Aggie die.” On the fourth day the doctor said, “ My 
lads, I can do no more. To all human appearances 
good old Aggie’s days are numbered.” 

Aggie already expected that she was going to die ; 
she read the truth in the faces of the friends around 
the bed. “ If I am going to dee I maun make my 
will,” she said. “ Thank God, my peace has long 
been made wi’ him, and wherein I lme been un- 
faithfu’ it is mair than covered by the faitlifu’ness o’ 
Jesus in whom I trust. I canna speak muckle, neither 
hae I muckle to say. One tiling I feel impressed to 
say to these bairns whom I dearly love, and it is this: 
‘God out o’ Christ is a consuming lire.’ Fearfu’ 
words they are, and na less fearfu’ than true. Dinna 
presume too muckle upon the loving-kindness o’ God. 
He did, indeed, sae love sinners that he gied his only 
begotten Son to dee for them, but you maun hae 
respect to the sacrifice, you maunna slight the offers 
o’ mercy.” 

Her voice was choked by coughing, and no more 
words of warning were given. Presently she spoke 
again about the disposition of her money : 

“I had thought to leave part o’ my money to 
Judith, but now that she is sae weel provided for I 
have but ane place for it. According to my lights 


160 


Ebb and Flow. 


I think proper to leave it to Mr. Robinson, my be- 
loved pastor, whose faithfu’ness pointed me to the 
Saviour o’ sinners. I hae twa hundred pounds or 
thereabouts, and I take pleasure in the knowledge 
that it will help him. I leave Judith all my clothing, 
unless there is something you would like to keep to 
remind you o’ your servant Aggie. In that case 
keep ony thing, and a thousand welcomes. I want to 
thank you, my good mistress, for a’ your kindness to 
me, and the bairns too, for I have been happy here 
wi’ you. For fear I may na be able to speak more, 
I will say, The Lord be with you a’. I think I shall 
soon find Walter.” 

A few hours later Aggie Simpson changed worlds. 
For who shall doubt that such as she find immediate 
entrance into the peace and rest of heaven ? 

It would be difficult to describe Mr. Robinson’s 
feelings when he learned that Aggie had left all her 
money to him. After her death it was found that 
her “ two hundred pounds or thereabouts ” meant two 
hundred and twenty-five pounds. This sum nearly 
doubled Mr. Robinson’s money, for his own saving 
was but little more, and he felt relieved when he 
thought of the future. He received the gift as one 
of the Lord’s provisions for him, while he was not 
unmindful of the human agency he had used. A 
great tenderness sprang up in his heart for the kind- 
hearted Christian woman who had so prized the hope 
of eternal life that she had never ceased to be thank- 
ful to her pastor for showing her the way ; and now 
she had remembered him in her last hours. His 
thoughts went back to the time when he first saw 
her, stout-built, strong-faced, still fresh and rosy, 


Changing IIer World. 


161 


though evidently nearing middle life. She had early 
gone to service in a godless family, and not until she 
went to live with Mrs. Raeburn had she been anxious 
about her soul’s welfare. Then she had first sought 
Christian counsel of Mr. Robinson, and now lie 
recalled the Monday evening when she came to him 
for help. He was sitting in his study one winter 
afternoon, and as it became too dark to read he closed 
his books and gave himself up to his thoughts. They 
were sad thoughts, for he was lamenting the coldness 
of his church members and the indifference of those 
who were still out of Christ. He was aroused from 
his reverie by the entrance of his wife, who said in an 
undertone, “ Jessie’s serving-woman is here, and wishes 
to speak with you. She seems serious.” 

“ Bring her in,” said the minister, putting up a 
prayer that he might speak the right word and in the 
right place. Mrs. Robinson soon brought in a candle, 
and she was followed by Aggie. No sooner was she in 
the minister’s presence than she burst into tears. 

“ Hae you a word of encouragement for a broken- 
hearted sinner?” she said, huskily. 

“ Ay, for a broken-hearted sinner, for such hearts 
are in the fittest condition for healing. A heart that 
is satisfied with its natural state is hard to reach, but 
one that knows its own defilement, and knows that 
it is powerless to help itself is ready for the cleansing, 
healing process of divine love.” 

“If that is sae,” replied the weeping woman, “ then 
there is hope for me; for I could find na help in 
mysel’, and as often as I tried for a wee bit o’ peace 
a voice seemed to sound in my ears, ‘ There is na 
peace for you, Aggie Simpson. You ha vena deserved 
11 


162 


Ebb and Flow. 


it, you havena done ony thing to recommend yourself 
to the favor o’ God.’ ” 

“Most assuredly you have not; but it is your very 
need that recommends you to his favor. Your part 
lies in feeling this need. All have it, but all are not 
sensible of it. When we have this need and are led 
to believe in Him who is mighty to save, then it is- 
that we pass from death unto life.” 

“ Then I maun stop trying to fit mysel’ and hope 
for fitness and forgiveness both as a free gift.” 

“That you must; and your life will show whether 
you have received these gifts ; for, although works do 
not save us, they are a proof that we are saved. Our 
Saviour said, 4 By their fruits ye shall know them.’ ” 

Much more was said, and when Aggie rose to take 
leave she said, “Your words have done me good. I 
believe I have found peace a’ready, and if I dinna 
bear fruit o’ the right kind I ask you with all serious- 
ness to be faith fu’ to me.” 

She dropped a low courtesy and turned to go. 
Mr. Bobinson took her hand and said, “ I will try to, 
but remember we all are human, and if you are faith- 
ful your own words will do good. Perhaps some day 
they may help me ; perhaps they may help many.” 

Had his words been like a prophecy? Quietly, 
unobtrusively, she had administered^comfort in more 
than one home, and she had left a godly example 
that many in higher stations would do well to imitate. 
As he rose to answer the call to supper he said, 
“ Let none feel that they have not a work to do in 
advancing the kingdom of Christ, and let none doubt 
the power and willingness of the Helper who has 
given the command, ‘Go work in my vineyard.’” 


Changing Her World. 


163 


Afterward the good old man pondered long over 
the words he had repeated. Never before had he 
seen how imperative was the command ; and it 
formed the theme of his next Sabbath’s discourse. 
It was more powerful and persuasive than usual, and 
many of his hearers felt that they were idlers in the 
vineyard and awoke to new vigor and activity. 


164 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

MARK RAEBURN’S DANGER. 

The Raeburn family were much saddened by the 
death of Aggie. For more than a score of years had 
she served them with the utmost fidelity. They 
made no effort to fill her place. She had stayed with 
them because she was Aggie, and not because a ser- 
vant was necessary. For Aggie had been much more 
than a servant, and the family felt that a strong, true 
friend was taken from them. So, although Walter’s 
death was much more of a bereavement than Aggie’s, 
they were classed together as severe afflictions. 

Hitherto all their troubles had been occasioned by 
death, but now a new one was to follow that seemed 
scarcely less than death. And if human help could 
avail Aggie’s would, and she was missed more than 
ever. Mrs. Raeburn had often noticed that Mark and 
Norman did not always agree, and it often took 
Walter’s gentle words to produce harmony between 
them. How that there was no W alter to interpose, nor 
any strong, true Aggie to half command, half inter- 
pose, the mother found that the differences between 
the brothers grew more serious. Nor was the face of 
affairs improved when it became known that Norman 
not only retained his childish preference for Mary 
Gilmore, but that the preference had ripened into 
love. Mark, too, entertained a warm feeling for 
Mary as he saw her growing up into a beautiful 


Mark Raeburn’s Danger. 165 

woman, and liis heart seemed set upon gaining her 
affection in return. Mrs. Raeburn had hoped that 
Mark’s affection was not very firmly centered in Mary, 
and that in a little while all would be well. But in 
this she was mistaken, and the consequences were 
more serious than any one supposed. Of course the 
matter was for Mary herself to decide, and the decis- 
ion was made in favor of the sharer of her childish 
sports and her still loyal admirer. Mark was tender- 
hearted, and he had many noble traits. Since his 
father’s death he had been his mother’s dependence ; 
but one fault he had, and it was a grievous one — he 
was inclined to be intemperate. No one had seen or 
feared this but Aggie, and she had at one time in- 
curred the displeasure of her mistress by hinting at 
this. Now his trouble, which he fancied a heavy 
one, led him to open intoxication. The grief this 
occasioned is not easily conceived. His mother was 
bowed with sorrow, and her grief left no room for 
mortification. Lilias had a mingled feeling of pity, 
sorrow, and shame, while Norman felt indignant that 
such trouble had been willfully brought upon the 
family. Mary felt scandalized that Mark’s disap- 
pointment was held to be the cause of his fall, and 
the white-haired old pastor sighed in secret. Lewis 
felt sorrow alone. He had always preferred Mark to 
Norman, and he secretly wished that Mary had done 
the same until lie saw Mark’s weakness. As it was 
he sought Mark’s companionship more than ever, that 
he might lead him away from temptation. He said 
but little, though his manner was so kind that Mark 
more than once broke down. 

Once he said, “Leave me alone, Lewis; I do not 


166 


Ebb and Flow. 


deserve your kindness and attention. I have broken 
mother’s heart already, though I dearly love her. I 
can hardly do worse.” 

“ Yes, you can. Besides, your mother’s heart is 
not broken. She will forgive and almost forget your 
failing if you arise in your manhood and be free from 
it. If you continue in this evil course no doubt you 
will bring down her gray hairs with sorrow to the 
grave.” 

Mark looked up with tears in his eyes and a half 
resolve on his face, and said : 

“ It is of no use, Lewis ; I had hard enough work 
to leave the cup alone before this happened ; now it 
seems impossible to conquer myself. Do you know I 
miss Aggie? She saw my danger, and she was not 
afraid to speak. Often when I was going out she 
would follow me to the door and say, ‘ Mind, now, 
dinna gang wrong, Mark, lad ! 9 But mother never 
mistrusted me. Dear heart, that I had been wholly 
worthy of her confidence ! ” 

“ Be worthy yet, Mark. Grandfather would point 
you to God for help, and assure you that you could 
not then misplace your trust.” 

“ So would Walter if he were here, so would Ag- 
gie, and so does mother. I have tried a little to lean 
upon God, but I don’t seem to get help. Even now 
I am waiting to have you go, and then I will steal out 
and forget my sorrow, though I make a beast of my- 
self in doing it.” 

u Then I’ll not leave you to-night. Sometime you 
will thank me for hiudering you, if not now. Come 
away and see grandfather, do.” 

“Ho,” Mark replied, sadly. “I will see Iter if I 


Mark Raeburn’s Danger. 167 

go there. Besides, I cannot talk with Mr. Robinson. 
I have disappointed him and I have disappointed 
every one else.” He arose and paced the floor, then 
came and laid his hand on Lewis’s shoulder. “ Leave 
me to myself, Lewis,” he said. 

“ ’Deed and 1 willna,” said Lewis, imitating old 
Peter’s manner of speaking. “ By the way, let us go 
to Peter’s and hear Donley spin yarns.” 

As there was nothing else to do Mark assented, but 
he was a little shame-faced even for Peter and Judith. 
Mrs. Raeburn noticed that Mark went out with Lewis, 
and she felt relieved. She was more disconsolate now” 
than ever before. Other troubles she had taken to 
her pastor as well as to God. But this one she felt 
she could not tell to human ears. She could not bring 
herself to speak of such a grave fault in her once 
faultless Mark, her flrst-born. As the evil habit grew 
upon his brother, Norman became more bitter toward 
him. Mr. Robinson noticed this, and in hope of ad- 
ministering some counsel or comfort he broached the 
subject himself. His manner was so kind and con- 
siderate that Mrs. Raeburn did not feel any resent- 
ment. She opened up her heart before him, and, 
pouring out her sorrow, she added : 

“ Mark has always been my stay, so kind and con- 
siderate. Now that he has failed me what have I to 
depend on ? ” 

The minister’s voice was very firm as he answered, 
“The almightiness of the Almighty.” 

“ Truly I have leaned hard upon that,” said Mrs. 
Raeburn. 

“That is right, lean hard upon it. Still, God works 
through human agencies, and I have thought of apian 


168 


Ebb and Flow. 


that seems feasible to me. If you and Mark think it 
the proper thing to do I think we can carry it into 
execution. You know that Robert Raeburn, your 
husband’s uncle and my special friend, still carries on 
the mercantile business in Perth. I have not a doubt 
that he would open both heart and home to Mark, 
providing he is anxious to overcome his weakness. 
That arrangement would take him from the scene of 
his present unhappiness and be a great relief both to 
himself and to Norman.” 

Mr. Robinson might have added more reasons, but 
he wisely forebore using more words. Mrs. Raeburn 
was not at first favorably impressed with the plan, but 
she promised to think of it and lay the matter before 
Mark. It did not take long for her to conclude that 
it would be well for him to leave the scenes of tempta- 
tion, and she asked his opinion of the subject. 

“It is what I would desire above every thing else,” 
lie replied ; “ only I wish Uncle Robert need not know 
all. I wish I might start square — that is, I wish no 
bad report to precede me.” 

“ Then how would you account for leaving home ? ” 

“ Why, Norman and Lilias are here.” 

“Yes; but Uncle Robert knows how you turned 
comforter when your father died, and that since then 
I have considered you my earthly staff and stay.” 

Mark looked hard at the floor and said, “ I make 
but a poor staff — broken as soon as needed.” 

The mother did not reply, and Mark soon raised 
his eyes and said, “ Mother, I will promise nothing ; 
but don’t give up all hope of me.” 

“Far be it from me to do such a thing, my son. 
Mothers do not give up their children so easily. They 


Mark Raeburn’s Danger. 169 

hope against hope, even when their hearts are break- 
ing.” 

“ I know, I know, and often their persistent hope is 
rewarded. God grant that yours may be ! ” 

The mother’s face lighted with a smile as she an- 
swered : 

“I think it will be granted, even though dark, 
weary years should intervene. I have felt of late 
that my prayer must be answered ; and you know it 
is written, 6 According to your faith be it unto you.’ ” 


170 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A FAIR START IN PERTH. 

As Mr. Robinson supposed, tlie matter was easily ar- 
ranged with his old friend, Robert Raeburn. He told 
Mark’s mother that he did not approve of keeping the 
knowledge of his fault from his uncle. 

“ Forewarned is, forearmed, you know,” he said. 
“ Besides, how is one person going to help another if 
it is not known that help is needed?” 

But the uncle’s welcome to Mark was none the less 
hearty, neither did he think it necessary to tell the 
family that Mark was intemperate. It was evening 
when the lad reached his uncle’s dwelling, and al- 
though he had not seen the old gentleman since liis 
father’s funeral he knew him at once. But Mr. Rae- 
burn could scarcely recognize Mark in the tall young 
man who stood before him. 

Robert Raeburn was very kind and affable, and 
Mark was at once pleased with him. The other mem- 
bers of the family were very pleasant. The evening 
passed quickly, and the uncle himself lighted Mark to 
his room. When the door was closed Mr. Raeburn said : 

“ My lad, I have one thing to say to you. Ho one 
but myself knows your failing. The secret is safe 
with me. I shall not divulge it unless you disappoint 
me. This I believe you will not do.” 

Mark thanked him heartily, and added, “ I hope I 
shall be worthy of your trust, sir.” 


A Fair Start in Perth. 


171 


“Now, just a few words about business. I have 
dismissed my book-keeper for the same failing, and you 
are to have his place. Although I shall be very 
kindly disposed toward you, you will see from his case 
that you have need of care and watchfulness.” He 
did not say, “ I shall hedge up your way in order to 
keep you from temptation ; ” but this is what he had 
resolved to do. Mark bowed in assent, and Mr. Rae- 
burn added: “Of course you will board with us and 
be one of the family. I expect to find much pleasure 
in the arrangement, and I shall experience no little 
family pride in introducing such a fine-looking young 
man as my nephew.” 

Mark smiled gratefully. How could he help being 
pleased ? He had been so cast down that the barest 
prospect of pleasing any one was agreeable to him. 
He knew that lie was fine-looking, and he was thank- 
ful that intemperance had not yet set its unmistakable 
seal upon his countenance. So his heart took hope and 
courage as he bade his uncle a cheerful good-night. 

The family greeted him cordially next morning, 
and after a pleasant hour in the breakfast-room uncle 
and nephew set out for their place of business. 
Meantime the other members of the family were dis- 
cussing the new relative. Mr. Raeburn's wife was 
dead, and the management of the house devolved 
upon Edith, his unmarried daughter. Rose Dunton, 
another inmate of this home, was the child of his 
dead daughter, Mrs. Elizabeth Dunton. These, with 
the servants, comprised the household. 

“ Mark is a fine-looking young man, and he has a 
nice, pleasant manner,” remarked Miss Raeburn to her 
niece after Mark had left the house. 


172 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ Yes, indeed; you seldom see a young man who is 
so pleasing, and he is from the country, too,” said 
Rose. 

“ It is no damage to be brought up in the country ; 
for if one misses much he also gains much. What- 
ever grace or dignity one has is natural, and that is 
always the best kind. Besides, Mark’s mother is a 
woman of refinement and culture, and he has grown 
up with books all around him. Walter was a real 
lover of books, so I hear.” 

“ It seems a pity that he died so early, Aunt 
Edith.” 

“Yes, it does; and it seems a pity that Cousin 
Evan died just in the prime of life, and many other 
things seem a pity ; but I tell you, Rose, that all these 
things are managed by One who is more pitiful than 
any of his creatures, and so they must be right.” 

“ Don’t you think that this young man is a little 
sad ? ” said Rose, returning to Mark. 

“I suppose he is feeling badly about leaving his 
home and his mother. She always doted on him, I 
am told, and I wonder that he left her. Your grand- 
father says that Norman is quite capable of taking 
charge of their little property, and there was no need 
to keep them both at home. I remember a letter that 
Cousin Jessie wrote when Walter died, and she said 
that she would never willingly part with either of the 
other lads. Father destroyed the letter that Mr. Rob- 
inson wrote him in regard to Mark’s coming ; it is a 
little curious,” said Miss Edith, who was always taken 
into her father’s confidence. 

“ Well, I am right glad that Cousin Jessie did spare 
him. It is a good home, and you are the dearest 


A Fair Start in Perth. 


173 


auntie, and grandfather is the best grandfather in the 
world ; but I do get rather lonely sometimes,” said 
Rose, with her usual frankness. 

“ I don’t doubt it, for father and I are no longer 
young,” replied her aunt, and then both went about 
their duties. 

When Mr. Raeburn and Mark arrived at their 
place of business the old gentleman remarked, u The 
books are all in a muddle, and it will take us both to 
straighten them.” 

But while Mr. Raeburn had a clear idea how busi- 
ness should be done work was not the only thing he 
thought of. Often he said, “ Come, Mark, lad, let us 
go out of this musty place and scent the fresh air.” 
Not unfrequently he had the pony chaise brought 
around and the two would drive away chatting pleas- 
antly of the country through which they passed. 
Sometimes the uncle would draw rein and bid Mark 
get down and pick a spray of wild flowers, adding, 
“Your limbs are more supple than mine, you 
know.” 

Mark soon grew very fond of his uncle, and they 
were constantly together. Even after Mark was per- 
fectly familiar with the place Mr. Raeburn always 
found some excuse for accompanying him when he 
went out. If they did not go out he planned some 
pleasant course of reading, and the whole family spent 
the evening together. All this was brought about so 
easily and naturally that it was some time before Mark 
saw that it was done designedly to keep him from 
temptation. A letter from him to his mother will 
best show his appreciation of this unlooked-for atten- 
tion : 


174 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ My Dear, Honored Mother : I write tlius soon 
again because my first letter could hardly have been 
satisfactory, it was so short and hurried. Even now 
my time is nearly all occupied, not with work, how- 
ever, for I am not kept very closely at the desk. 
Uncle Robert spares no pains to please and gratify 
me, and we walk or drive a great deal. My evenings 
are always spent with the family, and even these are 
full. Sometimes we read aloud, and sometimes I 
sing with Cousin Rose. She has a fine piano, and she 
sings and plays beautifully. All are very kind to me, 
and my life seems so pleasant that I sometimes fear I 
shall awake and find it all a dream, and that I shall go 
back to sorrow and shame. I have not been very badly 
tempted by my appetite, and if I were I would have 
little chance to indulge it. Uncle Robert’s friendli- 
ness keeps him in constant attendance ; so he is my 
safeguard without knowing it. 

“I think I shall be very happy here, Uncle Robert 
is such excellent company, not in the least like some 
old gentlemen I know. He is very much like our 
good old pastor, and I do not wonder they are such 
good friends. Please give him my dutiful regards. 

“ Cousin Edith is a pleasant, sensible woman, and 
Rose seems to be faultless. She is as frank and con- 
fiding as a child ; and wins her way into one’s affec- 
tions at once ; but she seems entirely ignorant of her 
own charms. I am very proud to have her call me 
6 Cousin Mark.’ 

“ Now do- not think that with so much to please me 
I shall forget you. I shall never do that. Even now 
I long to throw down my pen and rush into your 
presence, look into your dear face, and feel your kiss. 


A Fair Start in Perth. 175 

-No, mother, be sure I shall always keep your place 
very near my heart. 

“ My love to Lilias and Norman. I suppose they 
are so happy they scarcely miss their absent, disgraced 
brother. I am sure I wisli them all possible happi- 
ness. I was about to send a message to Aggie. 
Dear, old Aggie ! I cannot think her dead. Next to 
you, mother, she was my truest friend. 

“ I will close now ; I have only to say that I will 
inclose the greater part of my two months’ wages in 
my next letter. It will give me great pleasure to 
send it, and I hope it will set your mind at rest in 
regard to Lilias’s outfit. Your dutiful son, 

“ Mark Raeburn.” 

After Lilias read this letter she said, “ I do not 
think it fair for Mark to take it into his head that I 
don’t care for him. lie knows I always felt a true 
sisterly regard for him, though he did make me 
ashamed. And Lewis was never more his friend than 
since he went astray.” 

“ Don’t worry about it, Lilias. That was not much 
to say, considering how the poor lad has been vexed,” 
replied the mother. 

In regard to Norman, Mark’s supposition was nearly 
correct. He had not missed his older brother, or 
missed him only as he was relieved by his absence. 
As has been told before, these brothers disagreed, and 
had it not been for their excellent breeding there 
would have been many an open rupture that would 
have done credit to neither. Norman did not ask to see 
the letter, and his mother only said, “ Your brother is 
well, and he sends his love to you.” 


176 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ Thanks,” said Norman, abstractedly ; but he asked 
no questions, and without further remark he .left the 
house. 

The mother felt grieved, and she too went out. 
Lilias, looking after her, saw that she went directly 
to Walter’s hillock and sat down with her head upon 
her hands. “ Mother is grieved,” said Lilias to her- 
self. “It is a poor sign when she goes to Walter’s 
hillock. She is bewailing the dear lad’s absence and 
perhaps grieving over the faults of us who are left to 
her.” 

Norman saw where his mother had gone, and he 
went to her. So slowly and quietly did he approach 
that she was not aware of his presence till he stood 
before her. 

“ What is amiss, mother, that you seem so sad ?” he 
asked. 

“O, my bairn, it is because you and your brother do 
not cherish the proper feelings toward each other.” 

Norman lmng his head and was silent. Finally he 
said, “ Mark is not like him who was wont to sit here.” 

“ Neither are } r ou, Norman, lad.” 

“ I know it. I am as much at fault as Mark, no 
doubt.” 

“ Certainly you are. 0, little did I think when my 
lads were small, and one after another came to kneel 
by me to say their evening prayer that Walter would 
go so early from me and that those who remained 
would be estranged in this manner. Not until you 
are a parent yourself, Norman, can you know the 
misery of parents when their children disagree.” 

Norman was softened by his mother’s tears, for she 
could no longer hide them. He really loved her ; so 


A Fair Start in Perth. 


177 


did Mark, and she sometimes thought that through 
their affection for her they would be drawn together. 
But there was another agency at work. Aggie had 
hurled them a warning almost with her last breath, 
and already it was working like leaven in Mark’s 
mind and heart. Neither was Norman unmoved by 
it, though now he merely said : 

“Well, mother, very unpleasant things have come 
up between us, and I cannot easily forget them. But 
for your sake I will be friends with Mark providing 
he will first come half way toward me.” 

“ That is well, that is one step in the right way ; 
but, my bairn, there are steps beyond this that must 
be taken by him who would win eternal life. In the 
Book you read these words : ‘ This is my command- 
ment, that ye love one another, as I have loved you.’ 
And what kind of love w T as that, think you? Was it 
love that led the divine Master to turn his back upon 
a brother in disappointment and disgrace ? You whose 
affections have not been crossed, you who have been* 
kept from falling — for God keeps us, and not we our- 
selves — you can afford to make the first overtures. 
Don’t interrupt me ; hear me through. As I said be- 
fore, you have happiness and a fair name and home 
left to you still ; and you do not know how Mark fares 
away from us, whether he has fallen into sin and 
temptation, whether he is well or ill, for you do not 
ask. It is this want of brotherly feeling that makes 
me sad,” she concluded. 

“ Then I can do no less than ask your forgiveness, 
for, though I am vexed with Mark, I don’t want to 
vex yon. And now, while I am confessing, I don’t 
mind telling you that I did want to hear how Mark 
12 


178 


Ebb and Flow. 


got along, but I was a bit too stubborn to ask. Please 
tell me what he wrote ? ” 

“ Well, I am glad to be able to tell you that he has 
been kept so far. He is quite contented, and he ex- 
pects to send me money for Lilias’s outfit. I will say 
nothing against it, for there are many reasons why it 
is better that he should.” 

“Mark has his good . traits,” assented Norman. 
“ Perhaps I will write first, mother, but it will go 
against the grain, I can tell you.” 

“ Try it. It will be easier than you think. What 
if death should come between you ? If you were 
brought face to face with the cold clay of our poor 
Mark, and no reconciliation had taken place, how 
would you feel ? Believe me, you would not think 
of his faults, but your heart would feel like breaking 
for the forgiveness he could never speak. You 
would remember all his patient goodness, for Mark 
is good. Many good people are weak. In truth, all 
^people have some weak point, and that is why we are 
to help each other. Our friends are to set their 
strength over against our weakness, and we are to 
guard them when they seem to need us.” 

Norman reached down his hand to help his mother 
up, and said, “ Come home with me, mother. The 
words you have spoken shall not be lightly set aside. 
See, Lilias is looking for you.” They walked to- 
gether to the door, and then Norman turned away. 

Mrs. Raeburn knew that he had told but half the 
truth when he said he was “ a bit stubborn,” for he 
was very stubborn. All the little difficulties between 
Norman and Mark grew out of Mark’s wish to claim 
what he understood to be his prerogatives as eldest 


A Fair Start in Perth. 


179 


brother, some little obedience from Norman. But 
Norman steadily refused to obey him in the simplest 
~ thing. To his mother he was obedient, but it caused 
her no little trouble that she must second Mark in 
every thing before her youngest son would do what 
was right and proper at his older brother’s request. 

It was a hard hour that Norman spent after he 
left his mother. He went to Walter’s other haunt, 
the old gray stone back of the garden-wall. At last 
his better self gained the victory. He wrote a letter 
to Mark that, night, and then showed it to his mother. 
She nodded her approval and said, “ That is a right 
brotherly letter, Norman. I feel much happier now.” 

Mark’s first feeling upon receipt of the letter was 
one of shame that he had misjudged Norman. He 
immediately wrote an affectionate letter in reply. He 
dwelt at length on his own concern of mind that he 
was not yet one of the children of God. 

“You mind Aggie’s text, Norman,” he wrote — 
“ 4 God out of Christ is a consuming fire.’ It is sel- 
dom out of my mind. Do you know that as often 
as I tried to look away to God through Christ there 
was something in the way, and these words met me : 
i Therefore if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and 
there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against 
thee ; leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy 
way ; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come 
and offer thy gift.’ Now, dear brother, let by-gones 
be forgiven and forgotten, if possible. Let us have 
no more unpleasant, unbrotherly feelings, and let us 
both seek to win our way to God through Christ, the 
Saviour of sinners.” 

Norman carefully read the letter, then he handed 


180 


Ebb and Flow. 


it to his mother and stood looking out of the window. 
Mrs. Raeburn was much moved, and she spoke, 
saying : 

“ Mr. Robinson said truly that life, like the tide, 
has its ebb and flow. Is it going to please the good 
Lord to send flood-tide to us again ? ” 


The Pure in Heart. 


181 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE PURE IN HEART. 

Meantime at the manse there had been but little 
trouble and no real sorrow. The good old pastor 
often felt like giving expression to his feelings in the 
words of the psalmist, “ My cup runneth over.” 

Lewis Gilmore was an apt scholar, and he had early 
fitted himself for a teacher. Already he had taught 
three years in the school where he had spent so many 
happy hours as a pupil. His prosperity enabled him 
to think of marriage. He and Lilias Raeburn had 
been affianced more than a year, and rumor said, and 
said truly, that they were soon to be made one. 

Alfred, too, had received a very tolerable education, 
but his heart was set upon being a farmer. He was 
still fond of outdoor life, and, young as he was, his 
plans were formed to bring about the desired occupa- 
tion. It may not be fair to say that his affections were 
guided by his tastes, but they must have coincided 
with them, for he was engaged to Nelly McCabe, 
whose father was a prosperous farmer. 

Mary, as may be inferred, was betrothed to Nor- 
man Raeburn, and they were soon to be married. 

Mrs. Gilmore had regained much of her cheerful- 
ness and serenity. Mr. Robinson was in good spirits, 
and his health was remarkably good for one of his 
years. Aunt Catharine had all these years been the 
active, energetic housekeeper, never losing heart, 


182 


Ebb and Flow. 


never “ weary in well-doing.”. But suddenly a change 
came. Her health failed, and she seemed to melt away 
before the eyes of her friends. Now, indeed, sorrow 
came to them. Not one of the family could feel less 
than bereaved. Mrs. Gilmore realized what a depend- 
ence she had been to them, and Mr. Robinson bowed 
beneath his grief. Lewis, Mary, and Alfred stood 
about her bed as her spirit seemed fluttering to loose 
itself from the tenement of clay. Mrs. Gilmore was 
thinking of the purity of the dying woman’s life, and 
thinking also of the promise to such, and she mur- 
mured, “ For they shall see God.” 

“ Ay,” said Mr. Robinson, “ the pure in heart shall 
see God — see him not only to be judged at the last 
day, but they shall see him with favor. They shall 
see his face as the face of one who smiles upon them. 
O, happy, happy day when we all have the peace 
that possesses the hearts of such as Catharine ! ” 

His grandsons knew that he was thinking of them, 
for, strange as it may seem, only Mary had united 
with the Church. Now both Lewis and Alfred felt 
how necessary it was to prepare for death, and when 
they left the death-chamber it was with the resolve 
that henceforth they would not live to themselves, 
but to Him who died for them.” 

As Mrs. Raeburn and Lilias arrayed the body for 
burial they too were filled with tender recollections. 
The memory of the righteous dead is always precious 
to the thoughtful living, and many a one remembered 
Catharine Robinson to profit by her example. 

No other change occurred at the manse till Lewis 
and Lilias were married. The wedding took place 
one bright May morning, and all were happy, or seem- 


The Pure in Heart. 


183 


ingly so. Mark came home to witness the marriage, 
and he received an extra embrace from his impulsive 
and warm-hearted sister for the handsome outfit which 
she wore. Mark received many compliments upon 
his improved appearance, and Lilias told him that she 
was very proud of him. 

It w T ould have been well for the peace of many if 
no other young lady had noticed the change, or, notic- 
ing it, had remained unmoved by it. Mary Gilmore’s 
evil genius led her to contrast the Raeburn brothers. 
They differed widely in appearance, and Norman suf- 
fered by the contrast. Again and again she tried to 
check her thoughts, but her eyes had been opened, 
and she vainly tried to shut them. “ If I had to 
choose again,” she found herself thinking, but, alarmed, 
she set herself the task of proving that Norman was 
Mark’s superior in reality if not in appearance. This, 
however, was not easily done, and when Mary sought 
her pillow that night she was too disturbed to sleep. 
For days no one noticed any thing unusual in her 
manner, but after a while she grew absent-minded, 
and she did not seem pleased when any one spoke of 
her own marriage, which was to take place in the 
autumn. 

Once she surprised her mother by saying, “ I don’t 
believe I want to marry so soon.” 

“ Why, Mary, what ails yon, my bairn ? Are you 
unhappy at the thought of leaving home ? It is but 
a step to the Raeburn cottage, and Mrs. Raeburn, as 
well as Norman, looks forward to the time when you 
will take Lilias’s place.” 

“It is not that. O, mother, you will never tell it, 
but I decided too quickly between the two brothers! ” 


184 Ebb and Flow. 

Having said this she burst into tears and buried her 
face in her hands. 

Mrs. Gilmore could not suppress a groan, but she 
tried to cover it by speaking cheerfully. “ Now, my 
dear, you are wrong there ; you have not decided too 
hastily. A friendship that was formed in early child- 
hood and lasted through riper years must be more 
lasting still. This that disturbs you now is but a pass- 
ing fancy — a fancy that I am sorry for and ashamed 
of. You do well to keep it from your grandfather’s 
ears ; and, Mary, let not such a thought cross Nor- 
man’s mind.” 

“ Perhaps it is not right to keep it from him, 
mother.” 

“ Yes, it is. Because one wrong is started must 
you start another? Norman is the man of the two.” 

“ Lewis does not think so.” 

“ That is because he and Mark are nearer of an age ; 
it is but the partiality of early friendship. Besides, 
how do you know that Mark still cares for you ? I 
watched him narrowly, and I was glad to see that he was 
well over his fancy. Of course, I did not dream what 
was passing through your silly head.” 

“Well, mother, I get no sympathy from you.” 

“ No, you will not get one word from me to set 
you further from the right. You chose for yourself. 
You did not ask my advice ; you but asked leave to 
give Norman the first place in your heart, and now 
you would cast all away for what ? A bit more per- 
sonal attraction ? Suppose, now, that you reverse 
the matter ; suppose you were true to Norman, but 
he saw some fine lady better and more fashionably 
clad than yourself, and with a bonnier pair of eyes, 


The Pure in Heart. 185 

perhaps, and liis heart went over to her. What would 
you think of him ? Come now.” 

“ I can’t deny that 1 would think hard of him.” 

“ Then be advised by your mother, who loves you 
well, to put away this nonsense. Forget it for the 
sake of right and for the sake of your own happiness. 
What would people think if they knew you had such 
inconstant thoughts ? ” 

“ I w T ill say no more about it, mother,” Mary re- 
plied with tremulous lips. 

66 That is a good lass,” said Mrs. Gilmore. 

True to her promise, Mary said no more on the 
subject ; but her mother saw that all was not right. 
She seemed to weary of Norman’s visits. Mrs. Gil- 
more was troubled ; she tried to interest Mary in the 
preparations for her marriage ; she provided a bet- 
ter outfit than her means really allowed ; but Mary 
grew more nervous and unhappy as the wedding-day 
drew near. 

One evening Norman came in and said : “ Mark, 
the dear old lad, seems to have bad luck with his 
love affairs; he has been disappointed again. Now 
he says it will be a long time before he embarks in 
another courtship.” 

Mary’s first thoughts were, “ So he has forgotten 
me, since he has fallen in love again ; ” and the next 
thought was, “ Dear old Norman, how little he sus- 
pects how disloyal I have been to him ! And he shall 
never know. After all, as mother said, he is the one 
for me.” 

It was but a momentary struggle that Mary had, 
but it was enough to confirm the suspicions of the 
watchful Norman, for he had suspected the truth. 


18 G 


Ebb and Flow. 


Ever since Lilias’s marriage he had noticed that 
Mary, though unusually quiet, never failed to rouse 
herself at the mention of Mark’s name. Determined 
to know Mark’s feelings, the intrepid lover paid him 
a visit at Perth. 

“ Well, this is kind of you, Norman,” was Mark’s 
greeting. “ I did not think you could leave your 
lady-love long enough to come to see me.” 

“ Why not, brother ? ” asked Norman, looking 
straight into Mark’s eyes. “ When one is sure of his 
happiness can he not rest on it a bit? But, Mark, 
you are a fine-looking callant now, and if it had to 
come up which one of us a lassie would choose I fear 
it would go hard with plain Norman.” 

“Well, it cannot come up again. I was wrong, 
Norman, for I knew your preference for Mary before 
I felt it myself. But that is all past, all past,” he 
repeated. “ I am well over my envy and ill-will 
toward you, and I can think of Mary as a sister with- 
out a pang of jealousy. I am glad that the old dif- 
ferences are settled, and that we know something of 
that love that esteems others better than ourselves. 
And believe me, brother, no willful act of mine will 
ever endanger your happiness.” 

Norman, perfectly satisfied, replied: “You are a 
good lad, Mark, a good son and a good brother. I 
hope before long you will find a lass to whom you 
will make a good husband.” 

Mark smiled as he said : “ Do you know, I could 
fancy our Cousin Rose right easily? But I have 
found, little to my liking, that she has an acknowl- 
edged suitor.” 

This conversation afforded Norman all the grounds 


The Pure in Heart. 


187 


lie had for telling Mary that Mark had been again 
disappointed. How that he was satisfied that Mark 
no longer cared for Mary he concluded that it was 
time to disturb her day-dreams. Strange to say, he 
scarcely resented this falling off of Mary’s affection. 
His coolness and stubbornness came to his aid, and when 
he knew that her heart was again in his own keeping 
he said to himself, “Well, I have managed that 
affair.” 

And he had managed it. Mary knew that she had 
been much influenced by what she thought Norman 
casually mentioned concerning Mark. Now that she 
was set right again she saw that she and Norman 
were well suited to each other. “ Mark is too brill- 
iant for me,” she thought, and then dismissed him 
from her mind. 

Mrs. Gilmore felt greatly relieved when the mar- 
riage took place at the appointed time. Mary was 
still ignorant that her husband knew any thing of 
her disloyalty, and he himself only knew it to forgive. 
He was perfectly satisfied in possession of the prize 
that he had come so near losing the second time. 


188 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A WEARY TRAVELER. 

While the neighbors on either side had fared as 
has been related old Peter Morrison’s family had en- 
joyed their own share of quiet happiness. Angus 
had forbidden his uncle to handle any heavy tools 
or work till he wa3 weary. And what Angus did for 
his uncle Dolly did for her grandmother. She re- 
lieved her of all the housework, and the old couple 
scarcely knew what to do with their time. 

It is due Peter to say that he grew more stable and 
trustful as old age settled down upon him. This was 
a great comfort to Judith, for, as she said, she was 
“ amaist weary of laboring with him.” And truly 
one does grow weary of constantly encouraging oth- 
ers ; for there are many Peters and Judiths in the 
world. Some u have need of milk and not of strong 
meat,” and others “ go on from strength to strength.” 

All earthly happiness is subject to change and loss, 
and sorrow comes alike to castle and hut and palace. 
One summer afternoon Peter and Judith sat in the 
little low porch before the cottage door. Judith sat 
erect with her knitting in her hands and the long- 
used needles flew as swiftly as of yore. But Peter sat 
bent forward, his hands hanging down in front of his 
knees and his head resting on his chest. Nothing 
but an occasional trot of either foot showed that he 
was awake, till at last he raised his head and said : 


A Weary Traveler. 


189 


“ Judith, I hae been a queer, queer Christian. I 
hae had so many doubts and fears ! But I canna 
help that noo, and I believe the Lord has forgi’en 
me. Still, I am ashamed that I hae made so little 
progress. It is sad to reflect upon it, and I maun n a 
do it. ‘ But this one thing I do, forgetting those 
things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those 
things which are before, I press toward the mark 
for the prize o’ the high calling o’ God in Christ 
Jesus.’ I mean to do this more than ever, Judith.” 

“ Ay, Peter, I have seen a great change for the 
better in you. For all the dark times you hae had 
I think you will yet outrun me.” 

“ I will outrun you in ane sense, for I will be the 
first to go liame.” 

' “ Think you that, Peter ? ” 

“ O, ay ! I feel sure of it.” 

His head fell again, and Judith knew that he was 
meditating upon eternal things. Her heart felt a sud- 
den fear, and she bent upon him a searching gaze. 
A few stray white locks were on his head, and these 
were lifted and tossed by the light breeze. His once 
broad shoulders were fallen away, and the blades were 
very prominent through his thin summer clothing. 
A quiver crept over Judith’s strong face, and a tear 
dropped upon the coarse stocking she was shaping. 
A long train of thought was started. She went back 
over their long life together. She thought of his 
failings, and how they dwindled away in the tender- 
ness of the hour ! She thought of his good qualities, 
and how her fond heart magnified them ! Her cen- 
sure she regretted, her sympathy and patience she felt 
had been all too little. The afternoon wore on, and 


190 


Ebb and Flow. 


still her thoughts were with the quiet figure beside 
her. As the sun grew low the old man started up, 
saying : 

“ I’ll awa’ and bring hame the coo. Angus wunna 
refuse me that wee pleasure, but at the way he goes 
on wi’ me I will soon he useless a’together.” 

“You hae done enough, though you should do na 
mair as long as yon live. And, Peter, man, we hae 
had quite a happy life together. Both hae made 
mistakes and both hae overlooked them, and I doubt 
not that we love each other well the day.” 

“ As weel as fifty years ago this very month, when 
we were first betrothed, Judith.” 

Judith watched the bent form go up the hill. 
Then she turned to Dolly and said, “ I feel worried 
about your grandfather. I never before realized how 
infirm he is.” She looked up the hill very often, and 
at last she said, “ There comes the coo. There comes 
the coo,” she repeated; “but your grandfather isna 
in sight. Pun, lassie, and see where he stays.” 

Dolly soon returned and said, “He has had a fall.” 

Judith looked at her as if she scarcely compre- 
hended her words, and Dolly repeated, “Grandfather 
has had a bad fall. I am come for Angus. We 
must manage to carry him hame, for he canna 
walk.” 

Judith was thoroughly frightened, and she started 
to go to him. Dolly brought Angus, and very soon 
all three were bending over the injured man. He 
was unable to speak, and he was fast becoming un- 
conscious. 

“ He is worse than when I left him,” said Dolly. 
“ He told me that he slipped on that rock, and he 


A Weary Traveler. 191 

would wait until I brought help. Now he canna 
speak at all.” 

Judith tried to satisfy herself that Peter knew her. 
Sometimes she thought she saw a faint smile, but 
she was not certain, as his face worked as he drew each 
hard breath. She put her face close to his ear, and 
said : 

“ Peter, if you ken me press my hand,” and the 
dying man, whose hand had lain limp in hers, clasped 
it with a slight pressure. Judith spoke again : “Peter, 
I believe that all is weel, but will you gie me one 
wee sign that you hae na fear o’ death and that 
heaven is near ? ” 

“ He bows his head,” said Angus. 

“ He heaves that hard to get his breath,” said 
Judith. “ Peter, if you feel sure that a’ is weel with 
you gie my hand a bit squeeze.” 

The pressure on her hand was faint, but unmis- 
takable, and Judith said, “Thank God for that wee 
testimony ! ” 

Once again she spoke in his ear : “ It willna be 
long till I come to you. Till then, fareweel.” 

The eyes were already closed, and the quivering 
frame soon gave the last sign of life. 

Norman Raeburn had been signaled from an ad- 
joining field, and with his help they bore the remains 
to the cottage. 

“ He must have had a terrible fall,” said Norman, 
as they laid the body upon the bed. 

“Ay, and there wasna much o’ him to stand a fall,” 
said Angus, shaking his head. 

Judith followed this remark by saying : “ He 
hasna suffered long, and it is a great mercy. But I 


192 


Ebb and Flow. 


would I could have talked to him if but ance mail*. 
If I had gone when I sent Dolly, then 1 could have 
talked with him.” 

Dolly shook her head and said : “ I doubt if he could 
have said much to you, grandmither. I could see 
then that he was sorely hurt.” 

Later in the evening Mrs. Raeburn called, and she 
and Judith sat and talked about the dead. 

“ It was but this afternoon that some words o’ his 
made me realize that he would soon slip awa’ frae 
me. The thought o’ his death scarcely preceded the 
reality o’ it. Weel, Peter has been getting ready 
for this change ; ane by ane he let go his worries and 
simply trusted. Poor, dear gudemon ! He was always 
afeard o’ an auld day till Angus came to us. But I 
think if he hadna come Peter would hae learned to 
trust with but ane loaf between him and want. I 
hae never been tried with such fears, so I may hae 
been impatient with Peter. We all hae our fail- 
ings.” 

All who heard her knew that she had few, and when 
she said she had never feared an old day Angus said, 
“ Nor she needna so long as I have a shilling in my 
pocket and arms to my body.” 

It was his money that gave Peter such a decent 
burial, and his cheerfulness and courage helped fill up 
the void that death had made. Still, old Peter was 
sadly missed in the cottage ; three times a day the 
family missed the bowed head and feeble voice ask- 
ing a blessing on their food. When Judith could 
bear it no longer she said, “ Angus, you maun make 
up a wee prayer to crave a blessing on our meal.” 

At another time she said, “ Angus, you hae been 


A Weary Traveler. 


193 


like a son to us. God grant you many blessings in 
return for your goodness ! ” 

And God did grant blessings to them all. A quiet 
cheerfulness came back to them, and the sadness grad- 
ually wore away from Judith’s heart. 

13 


194 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

PRAYER AVAILETH MUCH. 

The imregenerate state of liis grandsons caused 
Mr. Robinson much sorrow. He prayed, even wept 
over it in secret. His son-in-law, Richard Gilmore, 
had never been a religious man, and Mr. Robinson 
began to fear that his sons would be like him. But 
even while he feared he fought his fears with the 
promises from the word of God. One evening while 
daylight was waning he sat in his study thinking of 
the subject that was seldom out of his mind, and 
he said aloud, “Thou wiliest not the damnation of 
any, for thou hast declared that thou dost not.” Then, 
as if to strengthen his faith, he repeated : 

44 4 Say unto them, As I live, saith the Lord God, I 
have no pleasure in the death of the wicked ; but that 
the wicked turn from his way and live.’ 

“‘And I will take the stony heart out of their flesh, 
and will give them a heart of flesh.’ 

“ 4 That they may walk in my statutes, and keep mine 
ordinances, and do them : and they shall be my peo- 
ple, and I will be their God.’ 

“ 4 All thy children shall be taught of the Lord, and 
great shall be the peace of thy children.’ 

44 4 Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt 
be saved, and thy house.’ 

44 4 1 will establish my covenant between me and thee, 
and thy seed after thee, in their generations, for an 


Prayer Availeth Much. 


195 


everlasting covenant, to be a God unto thee, and to 
thy seed after tliee.’ 

u 4 Thou slialt keep his statutes, that it may go well 
with thee, and with thy children after thee.’ 

44 4 The seed of the righteous shall be delivered.’ ” 

These passages of Scripture followed one after an- 
other in quick succession, for the good man had long 
hidden them in his heart. When he had made an end 
of them he said, 44 O, most merciful God and Father, 
verify these thine own promises to thy unworthy serv- 
ant, whose heart grows faint and whose faith must fail 
unless thou dost speedily hear my prayer. Were it 
earthly blessings I ask for I would willingly wait thine 
own good, best time; but for this I must press, for 
4 now is the accepted time, now is the day of salva- 
tion.’ Let it be this very day, this very night.” 

Words failed him, but through the intensity of his 
feelings he remained upon his knees, and his heart 
said, 44 1 will not let thee go except thou bless me ! ” 
Shall we say that his faith laid violent hands upon 
the riches of grace to wrest them for the salvation of 
his grandson ? Did the kingdom of heaven suffer 
violence? Perhaps it did, for before the aged minis- 
ter arose from his knees Alfred entered the house and 
asked where his grandfather was. 

44 He is at his devotions,” said Mrs. Gilmore ; 44 you 
must not disturb him.” 

44 Let me go, mother,” said Alfred, going to the study. 

Mr. Robinson arose from his knees and looked at 
his grandson with a peculiar smile on his face. It 
was one of those slow, hesitating smiles that one wears 
when he waits to be asked a favor which he is happy 
to grant. 


196 


Ebb and Flow. 


“You smile, grandfather, but I cannot smile. I 
am sorely smitten with a sense of my sins, and I have 
come to ask you to pray for me.” 

“ I hoped as much, laddie. That was why I smiled. 
When you are ill you cannot be healed, you know, till 
you have used means to be rid of your sickness. So 
with your soul; if you had never known you were 
sick you would never have sought the Healer. You 
ken well who he is, the same that died for you, the 
same that has long called you through the preached 
word and the entreaties of friends. He is saying 
loudly, £ Son, give me thy heart.’ ” 

“I give it,” said Alfred, brokenly. 

“ The great and good God be praised ! ” came fer- 
vently from the old man. “ I had looked for Lewis 
first, but be it far from me to gainsay the workings 
of the Holy Spirit. Truly £ the last shall be first, and 
the first shall be last.’ ” 

“ There comes Lewis now, and his look is downcast, 
as I can well believe my own was when I came to 
you.” 

“ Ay, and he comes on the same errand ; I have 
faith to believe it. Forever let the abounding grace 
of God be magnified ! ” He smiled again, but he wept 
as well, his heart was so full of love and thankfulness 
to God for his tenderness and pity. 

“ May I come in ? ” said a choked voice. 

“ Ay, and thrice welcome,” said the grandfather as 
he admitted him. “We are having a prayer and 
praise meeting, and you have come to join it. I see 
it in your face and feel it in my heart.” 

“ Ay, I will join the prayer, but the praise I cannot 
give, unless it is that I am still out of a miserable 


Prayer Availeth Much. 


197 


eternity. If I were obliged to pass sentence upon my- 
self I would say that I deserve no better, for I have 
slighted offered mercy. O, my soul is weighed down 
with a sense of guilt ! ” 

“ How long have you felt the weight of your sins, 
my son ? ” 

“ Only since the day Tommy Burns united with the 
Church, and it is only two hours ago that I made up 
my mind that I must have forgiveness or die.” 

“We will fall on our knees and besiege the throne 
of grace. But your mother must share our joy that 
you are seeking pardon.” 

He opened the door and said, “ Annice, dear An- 
nice, come and see that the * Lord’s arm is not short- 
ened that he cannot save, neither is his ear heavy that 
he cannot hear.’ Come, cry unto him mightily so 
that we see his salvation.” 

Mrs. Gilmore had been waiting just outside the 
door, for she knew that something unusual was taking 
place. She needed no second call, and fell on her 
knees between her two sons. When her father’s audi- 
ble petition ceased she opened her mouth and prayed. 
Before she closed the prayer both Lewis and Alfred 
felt that they were saved sinners. 

Alfred was smiling over his new-found joy, and he 
said, “ Bless you, mother ; I did not know that you 
could pray so ! ” 

“ I don’t know how I prayed ; I did not know that 
I was going to pray. I had a strong desire for your 
salvation, lads, and I opened my mouth. The Lord 
must have given me utterance.” 

“ Ay, it came clearly from an unction of the Spirit,” 
said her father. 


198 


Ebb and Flow. 


They rejoiced together ; they praised God for his 
goodness ; they smiled and wept, and wept and smiled, 
till Mrs. Gilmore exclaimed, “ Did ever such happi- 
ness come to one home ? ” 

“ That reminds me I must go and tell Lilias/’ said 
Lewis. 

Mrs. Gilmore had shared her father’s anxiety in 
regard to her sons. She had not been blind to her 
husband’s spiritual state, nor ignorant of the hollow- 
ness of the profession he made, merely to secure her- 
self. But, although she could not blame him, she had 
a terrible fear that his boys might be like him. She 
rejoiced greatly that this fear was removed, and son, 
mother, and grandfather sat together that evening 
enjoying one another’s society as never before. And 
when it was time to separate for the night the happy 
old pastor offered up a prayer which was one glad 
acclaim of praise. 


The Lord Gave, the Lord Taketh Away. 199 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE LORD GAVE, THE LORD TAKETH AWAY. 

When Lewis left his grandfather’s study lie went 
to his new home. A pretty little cottage had been 
built on the further side of the manse, and Lewis 
rented it. It was a happy home, though one shadow 
hung over it, the shadow of those terrible words: “I 
will pour out my fury upon the families that call not 
upon my name.” Lilias had mourned over this, and 
Lewis guessed that she missed the family worship that 
she had been accustomed to, and he hastened to tell 
her the good news. It was already dark when he 
reached his own gate, but Lilias was leaning against 
it watching for him. He put his arm around her and 
drew her into the house without speaking. 

Then he said, “Lilias, like Joshua I have this day 
chosen whom I will serve, and, using his words, I will 
say, 4 As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.’ 
Shall it not be so, dear Lilias ? Are you not ready to 
join me in a service so worthy ? ” 

“ With all my heart, Lewis. I have long thought 
God’s service a duty, and since Mark and Norman 
entered the Church I have felt that it would be a 
privilege as well as a duty.” 

“ Lilias, I am afraid I have kept you out of the 
Church.” 

She did not deny it, and he said, “Thank God, 
that stumbling-block is removed!” 


200 


Ebb and Flow. 


That evening prayer was heard for the first time in 
their dwelling, and both Lewis and Lilias felt that 
their home was safe in the protection of prayer. 

It was a happy Sabbath for the venerable minister 
when Lilias and his two grandsons joined the Church. 
“ How both families are gathered in,” he said, grate- 
fully. 

Another heart was gladdened that day, the heart of 
Kelly McCabe, Alfred’s affianced bride. The fact 
that he weis yet out of Christ had been no small sor- 
row to her. Her father was scandalized that the min- 
ister’s grandson should remain “ outside the Kirk,” 
and for this reason he had given a very reluctant con- 
sent to the engagement. But there were times when 
Kelly’s own conscience was ill at ease, when she asked 
herself whether she could confidently ask and expect 
the blessing of God upon their approaching union. 

But it is the little home of Lewis, the school-master, 
that claims our attention in this chapter. Perhaps it 
would be difficult to find a happier home than his. 
He and Lilias had been attached to each other from 
childhood, and not a shade of distrust or weariness 
had ever crossed the mind of either. They were mar- 
ried with the consent and blessing of both families, 
and surely they had a right to be happy. To be sure, 
economy, and strict economy, was necessary, for their 
income was small ; but Lilias delighted to prove to 
her husband that she was a good manager and that 
they could live very comfortably on a small salary. 
It was even possible to save some part of their income 
in those first years of married life. But even more 
joy came to them, for a little daughter was born. She 
seemed the perfect image of Lilias; and while she 


The Lord Gave, the Lord Taketh Away. 201 

wanted to call it Jessie, after lier mother, Lewis over- 
ruled her wish and named her Lilias. 

“ She is the perfect image of you ; should she not 
be called by your name ? ” he said. 

It was very pleasing to the young parents to see the 
interest that Mr. Robinson manifested in this his first 
great-grandchild. He had but one name for her, 
■“ the bonnie wee lamb.” And as often as he saw her 
he looked tenderly upon her and repeated, “ God bless 
the bonnie wee lamb ! ” 

Mrs. Raeburn smiled fondly on the little one, who 
added much pleasure to her checkered life. Mrs. 
Gilmore’s heart warmed toward the “wee darling,” 
and all the friends were ready to make a great pet of 
her. 

But she was not to stay for their caresses. She 
came with the flowers, and she went with them. Early 
in the autumn she began to droop. Her parents were 
blind to her illness, and when their fears were aroused 
they found that nothing could be done for her. One 
bright morning she closed her sweet blue eyes in the 
repose of death. Lilias held the little cold form close 
to her own warm heart, but she could not bring back 
the life so lately fled. Her mother took the child 
from her, and Lilias said, “ Yes, take it, mother. The 
brightest and bonniest flower of earth is chilled by the 
frosts of death. I may not keep my bairn.” 

Her great sad eyes kept looking at the little form 
as she repeated, “The brightest and bonniest! the 
brightest and bonniest ! ” 

“ Ay,” replied Mrs. Raeburn, “ she was bright 
and she was bonnie ; and, Lilias, I think that such as 
she will make even heaven bonnier.” 


202 Ebb and Plow. 

“ Heaven has many little ones ; I had but the one,” 
said Lilias, sadly. 

Mr. Robinson laid his hand on her shoulder and 
said reproachfully but tenderly, “ Lilias, Lilias, my 
child ! ” 

“ Poor lass ! ” said Lewis, “poor dear lass ! Don’t 
lay aught to her charge, for 4 her soul is vexed within 
her.’ I can well believe that the dear Lord himself 
would forgive her that in the first moment of her 
great sorrow she grudged our bairn to him.” 

“ It may be as you say, for he knows human woe, 
and he knows the feebleness of our frames. On the 
other hand, we know that he doeth all things well, 
and if we cannot understand the things that are 
ordered for us we must accept them by faith. Our 
lives are much as we make them. If we try to 
walk by sight we have a long, weary way to travel ; 
but if we walk by faith we shall always feel safe and 
comfortable, knowing that God has the ordering of 
all things. I have lived long, and my race is nearly 
run. I have tried both ways, and I give you my 
testimony that I have had, and still have, great peace 
in trusting every thing to God’s care. It was but 
now that I was thinking how glad I am that I did 
not have the ordering of this event. In my blindness 
and earthly love — for I did love the bonnie wee lamb 
— I should in all probability have hugged the little 
one to my heart and kept her in this world of sorrow 
and trial, this world of pitfalls and snares. And when 
at last she must leave it by reason of infirmities and 
age she might not have been so pure, so sinless, so 
meet for the kingdom of heaven.” 

Mr. Robinson saw that the young mother’s tears 


The Lord Gave, the Lord Taketh Away. 203 

had stopped falling, and that she listened with fixed 
attention ; so he continued : 

44 As I said, it is a world of trial, and it must be. 
Our Saviour plainly tells us, 4 In the world ye shall 
have tribulation.’ Now when it comes to us we may 
be glad to know that this wee earth-born flower is 
blooming safe in the garden of God.” He arose, 
and bending over the little sleeper he said, 44 Ay, wee 
blossom, whatever storms sweep over this sin-cursed 
earth thou art forever safe in the bosom of Him who 
said, 4 Suffer little children to come unto me.’ ” 

When the good man ceased speaking the poignancy 
of grief had passed away, and the parents felt that 
if little Lilias was far beyond their loving care she 
was also beyond all sin and sorrow. And Lewis, 
feeling grateful toward their venerable relative, said, 
44 Thank you for your words, grandfather. They have 
done us good.” 

The rest is easily imagined — the tiny white robe, 
the coffin, the open grave, and the empty arms. But, 
though Lilias sadly missed her infant, she had warm- 
hearted friends who were ready to condole with her 
and to console her by the sustaining promises of the 
Holy Word. It was toiler mother that Lilias talked 
most of her loss. Shortly after her bereavement she 
said, 44 Mother, you do not know my sorrow; you 
have never lost such a bonnie wee thing from your 
arms.” 

44 No, Lilias. My first sorrow was the loss of your 
father, and it stunned while it saddened. May you 
be spared a like sorrow, my bairn ! ” 

44 O mother, that would be more than I could 
bear.” 


204 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ Don’t say tliat, Lilias, but be thankful that you 
have not been called to bear it. One thing I want to 
say right here, you will have strength to bear what- 
ever is sent to you. It is a world of shadows as well 
as sunshine, but God is visible to the eye of faith 
behind the shadows, and his strength is set over 
against our need.” 

This was the beginning of. a long talk, for Mrs. 
Raeburn had come to spend several hours with her 
daughter, and when at length they separated it was 
with the agreement that they would spend each 
afternoon together until the sadness wore away from 
Lilias’s heart. 


Founding a Family. 


205 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

FOUNDING A FAMILY. 

A happy party, the friends of the bride and groom, 
were gathered in Farmer McCabe’s best room to 
witness the marriage of Nelly to Alfred Gilmore. 
McCabe himself was in the best possible humor, and 
his wife was pleased and happy in her daughter’s hap- 
piness. Others smiled their sympathy and good-will, 
and even Lewis and Lilias felt that it was selfish to 
appear with sad faces, and they joined in the general 
gladness. 

Mr. and Mrs. McCabe felt that their daughter was 
no “ common lass,” and truly she was not. As she 
stood in her bridal attire she looked like a model for 
a sculptor. And surely it was pardonable in Alfred 
to think of her with pride as well as fondness. This 
was purely for herself, for her beauty, her aptness, 
and her strong common sense, not for the worldly 
gear that was laid up for her as an only child. 

Mr. McCabe was already old, and it remained for 
Alfred to prove himself master of the situation in 
which he had placed himself. The first thing he did 
was to look up Tommy Burns, whom he used to envy 
as he tended his sheep, while he, Alfred, was shut up 
in the school-room. Tommy had been highly recom- 
mended by the late foreman on the McCabe farm, who 
took occasion to leave under tlie new order of things 
and build up a home for himself. 


206 


Ebb and Flow. 


Alfred found Tommy living alone with his mother 
in a poor little cot. He was much dissatisfied both 
with his home and his wages, and he was strongly in- 
clined to change masters, though he should better his 
condition never so little. He was pleased with the 
offer Alfred made him, and the bargain was speedily 
concluded. 

Tommy Burns was one of those people to whom 
hard work and hard fare seem meted out. But he 
was brave-hearted, and found little fault with his lot. 
Hature’s noblemen are not all in a condition to rise. 
The hardy tiller of the soil who uncomplainingly ac- 
cepts the situation, daily toil for daily bread, fills liis 
place as well as the artist or the statesman. 

One proof of Tommy’s goodness was his excellent 
care of his mother ; and the pleasure he manifested 
the first evening in their comfortable cottage on the 
McCabe farm would have been well worth witnessing 
by many who repine at a better lot than his. Their 
small effects had been brought and placed, a bright 
fire blazed upon the hearth, and they had just eaten 
their first meal in thankfulness, when Tommy thus 
addressed his mother. 

“ Weel, mitlier, we hae snug, warm quarters at 
last, thanks to Him wha doesna forget the poor ! ” 

“Thanks to him, indeed, Tommy, but thanks to 
yoursel’ too. If you hadna earned a good name you 
wouldna liae had the chance o’ this place.” 

“ That is as you say, but who helped me to go 
straight? Yourself for one, and God for another. 
So you see it is all from God, for he gives us our 
friends. Weel, weel, I am more than pleased. A 
good liame, good wage, a good garden, and a pleasant 


Founding a Family. 


207 


employer. Surely we can say, ‘The lines liae fallen 
to ns in pleasant places.’ ” He rubbed his hands with 
the greatest satisfaction, and added, “ Weel, good 
things are worth waiting for.” 

“ That they are, though I liae often thought that 
you were deserving o’ mair than you had. It was 
only for you that 1 cared. I fared weel enough wi’ 
such a son to shield me.” 

“ O, I stood it weel, mither ! I stood it weel and 
now it is all passed.” 

Tommy went to work with a right good-will, and 
Alfred received many a valuable hint from his new 
hand. 

When Mr. Robinson made Alfred the first visit he 
saw Tommy Burns’s work and remarked, “You are 
fortunate in securing Tommy Burns.” 

“ I have already found that out,” replied Alfred. 

After a while the pastor sauntered out to talk with 
Tommy. The good-natured wight saw his approach, 
and he dropped the plow-handle, doffed his bonnet, 
and stepped over the newly plowed furrows to meet 
the minister. Mr. Robinson shook hands cordially, 
and said by way of beginning a conversation, “ I see 
you are hard at work.” 

“ Ay, I am hard at work, and I find na fault wi’ 
it.” 

“ It is well to be satisfied with our lot in life ; but 
Tommy, man, how is it with your spiritual welfare ? 
In this the poor need not stand behind the rich ; the 
most precious blessings are for them, 4 without money 
and without price.’ ” 

“So I have learned before from your own lips. 
I maun say that I arnna just satisfied with my spiritual 


208 


Ebb and Flow. 


welfare. I ken that the soul of man is a very precious 
thing, or God would not have given his Son to die for 
it. -And since our souls cost such a price it is but 
meet that we should try to fit them for the Master’s 
presence, so that when Christ comes to claim his 
bride, the Kirk, it may be found without spot or 
blemish. I often say to rnysel’, ‘ Tommy Burns, your 
soul isna bonnie enough for the eye of the Master, 
it has blemishes upon it ; ’ and that is what troubles 
me.” 

“’Well, Tommy, it is right to be dissatisfied with 
our spiritual attainments. It shows that we are hun- 
gering after righteousness, and you know the promise, 
that such shall be filled.” 

As he spoke he wondered how Tommy had such a 
clear insight into what a Christian should seek to be. 
All that afternoon Tommy’s words kept ringing in 
the pastor’s ears : “ Tommy Burns, your soul isna 
bonnie enough for the eye of the Master.” “Ay, 
that is it,” he thought, “ the soul must be beautified 
after it is cleansed. Like a picture, it must be 
touched into perfection by long, unwearied efforts, 
and by many a hint, many a lesson, from the great 
Master.” 

He returned to the house where both families 
lived, for there was room enough for all, and as Nelly 
was the only heir there were no divided interests. 
All around were signs of peace and plenty. The 
dairy and store-room and cellar gave ample proof of 
abundance. The orchards were white with blossoms, 
and the men were busily preparing and seeding the 
ground for a new harvest. And yet that very day 
when Mr. McCabe had been solicited for money to 


Founding a Family. 


209 


bestow on charity lie had given a very small sum, 
and that grudgingly. The pastor could not but think 
that where the grace of charity was wanting it would 
take many touches to make the soul beautiful. Oth- 
erwise his visit had been a pleasant one. He was 
urged to come often, and Nelly, especially, pressed 
him to visit them again soon. 

“ Ay, Nelly, I’ll come soon ; but I may come oftener 
than you care to see me.” 

“ You can hardly do that, grandfather,” she said as 
he and Alfred drove away from the door. 

As they drew near Tommy’s cottage Mr. Robinson 
said, “ I meant to drop in and see the Widow Burns, 
but it is hardly convenient for you to wait for me.” 

“ I will wait with pleasure,” Alfred answered, and 
with the greatest care and deference he lifted the aged 
man from the wagon. 

Mrs. Burns welcomed her pastor very cordially, 
and they spent a profitable half-hour together. Both 
felt their time on earth was short, and they talked of 
that better country whither they were journeying. 
Widow Burns did not fail to speak of the kindness 
and thoughtfulness of her son. 

“And that reminds me that Tommy wants to gie 
something toward the fund for the parish poor. It 
is double what he gied last year, for he wants to gie 
as the Lord has prospered him ; so instead of five 
shillings he gies the half-pound. He is a good lad, 
my Tommy ! ” 

“ Ay, he is a good lad ; the Lord bless him ! ” said 
Mr. Robinson. 

“ Tommy’s gift reminds me that we have more to 
do in the matter of charity,” said Alfred, as they 
14 


210 


Ebb and Flow. 


drove on. “My father-in-law gives sparingly, but 
Nelly and I will try to make up the deficiency. I 
am glad that you taught me to give, grandfather, and 
I am sorry for any well-meaning man who does not 
know the pleasure of giving.” 

“ My, but I am weary ! ” sighed the pastor as he 
seated himself in his study-chair. “ I have had a pleas- 
ant and profitable day, and I am glad I went. The 
Lord bless the honest-hearted lad who has given me a 
subject for next Sabbath’s sermon ! Ay, blessed are 
the pure in heart. It is the text that our minds 
dwelt upon when Catharine died. I must preach a 
sermon on the necessity of a pure heart.” 

The sermon was a searching one, and many winced 
under it. Tommy Burns was edified and instructed, 
because he saw more clearly how he might become 
fitted for the kingdom of heaven. 


Thkough III Report. 


211 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THROUGH ILL REPORT. 

Mark Raeburn was in trouble again, but it was 
a new kind of trouble. George Riddell, the young 
man whom Rose Dunton had so long encouraged, had 
obtained the promise of her hand, and her grandfa- 
ther, with a view to taking him into partnership, gave 
him a place in the store, that he might learn the busi- 
ness. Riddell had always wished Mark out of the 
way, although he pretended to be his warm friend. 
He set about trying to oust Mark, but all his attempts 
were foiled, and at last he grew desperate and laid a 
new plan to catch the young man who was such a 
favorite in the Raeburn family. So Riddell purloined 
small sums of money from his employer, and then told 
him that he feared Mark was dishonest, for he had 
more than once missed money from the drawer. Mr. 
Raeburn was indignant at such a charge against his 
nephew. But he supposed that Riddell was sincere 
in his suspicions, and he smothered his resentment. 

“ Why suspect Mark before the other clerks ? ” he 
asked. 

“ The other clerks have very little to do with the 
money-drawer, only Mark and myself, you know,” re- 
plied Riddell. 

u They might get to it by some means. I shall be 
slow to believe such a thing of my nephew.” 

“ I have warned you ; I can do no more.” 


212 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ See that you do no more. No other person must 
know what you have told me. Mind that ! ” 

But Riddell had already told the same story, for he 
wanted Mark to feel wretched, and he succeeded. 
Yery soon Mark found that he was eyed askance hy 
all the clerks ; whispers went round about him, and 
occasionally he caught a word. When he could no 
longer bear the suspense he went to his uncle and 
asked him if he could clear up the mystery. Mr. 
Raeburn looked very grave and stern. He was sorry 
for Mark and angry at Riddell for disclosing the 
secret. Mark suffered keenly, while his uncle sat 
silent with compressed lips. 

After a moment, which seemed like an hour to 
Mark, Mr. Raeburn answered, “ An evil report has 
been started about you, laddie. I don’t believe it, 
and I will sift the matter to the bottom ; but I must 
go quietly about it, or I shall not succeed.” 

Mark insisted upon knowing the nature of the re- 
port, and his uncle told him, adding, “ Go on with 
your duties as usual. Turn not to the right nor to 
the left, but keep your eyes and ears open, and I will 
do the same. The whole story may grow out of envy, 
and envy often defeats itself. It may in this case.” 

But as the days passed and there was no clew to the 
mystery Mark grew miserable. His uncle was even 
more kind than usual, but others turned away from 
him. Even Rose seemed distant, and he fancied that 
Miss Raeburn manifested some distrust. He prayed 
very earnestly that his innocence might be made 
manifest, though sometimes his faith almost failed 
him. Mr. Raeburn felt sure they would solve the 
mystery at last, and they did. 


Through III Report. 


213 


Very early one morning Mark and his uncle exam- 
ined the money-drawer and carefully noted the sum 
it contained. Then Mr. Raeburn said, “ I shall take 
my place behind the screen, and, Mark, you stay on 
this side close to me, so that I can hear all that is said 
to you. I feel it in my bones that we shall get some 
clew to the mystery to-day. You need not wait on 
customers this morning. You can plead a headache, 
for I am sure you must have both headache and heart- 
ache, poor lad ! ” 

George Riddell came in at the usual time, and after 
joking Mark about being in the dumps he went be- 
hind the counter. The first customer was a child, 
who bought a shilling’s worth of ribbon and turned 
away. Riddell cast a furtive glance at Mark, whose 
hand was before his face, though his fingers were 
apart and his eyes wide open. Riddell thought him 
more dumpish than he really was, and he went to 
the money-drawer. He dropped in the shilling that 
he had taken from the child, and Mark noticed that 
when he drew his hand out it was not open, but shut, 
as if closed over something. He then carelessly put 
his hands in his pockets and sauntered to the further 
end of the store, where he drummed upon the counter 
and looked out of the window. 

Mark went to his uncle. His face was very pale 
as he said : 

“ I want to ask one thing of you, but I fear you 
will be angry with me.” 

“ Try me and see,” was the answer. 

“Will you please count the money that is in the 
drawer ? I saw a move just now that I did not under- 
stand. I wish you had seen it yourself, sir.” 


214 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ I did see it through the rift,” said Mr. Raeburn, 
pointing to an incision he had purposely made in the 
screen. “ I did see it,” he repeated, “ and I am that 
angry I could tliraw the neck of him. Come with 
me and we will confront him.” 

The two went directly to the money-drawer. Rid- 
dell saw them, £nd he changed color. Mr. Raeburn 
counted the money aloud, and when he had finished 
he said, “"Well, Mark, you see that there are two 
sovereigns less but for one shilling.” 

He then called Riddell to him and said, sharply : 
“ See here, young man, I have found you out. ‘ In 
the net that you have spread is your own foot taken.’ ” 
Then followed what might well be called a Scotch 
blessing, which he finished by saying : “ How, sir, re- 
turn what is not your own, and then away with you, 
you graceless loon, that would both steal and lie to 
injure my own kin. Hot a shilling of mine shall ever 
find its way into your pockets ! And think yourself 
well off that I don’t expose your theft. I would do 
it soon enough but for — no, I will not speak of *you 
in the same breath. Henceforth she is nothing to 
you ; she shall never be your wife.” 

“She shall never be Mark Raeburn’s wife,” said 
Riddell, defiantly. 

The old man, willing to vex him, replied, “ That is 
more than you know.” 

Riddell scowled, looked hard at Mark, and muttered, 
“ Coward, fool ! ” 

“ Give him a shaking, Mark ! Shake him as a ter- 
rier shakes a rat ! ” said Mr. Raeburn. 

But Riddell did not wait for the shaking ; he 
backed out of the door, still muttering. 


Through III Report. 


215 


Mr. Raeburn followed him out and said, “ You 
need not take the trouble to explain matters to Rose. 
I will see that she excuses your absence.” 

The grandfather sought Rose as soon as he reached 
home, and he said, “ Poor lassie ! Grandfather must 
hurt your feelings, but you will soon be glad that you 
knew in time what I have to tell you.” 

“What is it?” she asked, manifesting some alarm. 

“ J ust this in a few words : George Riddell is a 
scoundrel.” 

He waited to see the effect of his words, and, notic- 
ing that she seemed terribly hurt, he said : “ I knew 
it would be hard, lassie ; but other things are hard too. 
There is your Cousin Mark, as honest a young man as 
ever lived, and Riddell has reported that he stole 
money out of the store ; and this morning both 
Mark and myself saw him take money from the 
drawer.” 

“ You must mistake ; you must mistake,” Rose re- 
plied. 

“No, I do not mistake. I mistrusted him a bit, 
though I hardly dared admit it to myself. But he 
was so ready, so willing to injure Mark, that I said to 
myself, 6 That young man is capable of a good deal of 
mischief.’ So this morning Mark and I counted the 
money both before and after he went to it, and we 
missed two sovereigns.” 

“ Some one else must have been there when you 
did not see him.” 

“No, lassie, no. There was no one in the store but 
our three selves. He did not know that I was there, 
but I watched him from behind the screen, and I saw 
him take something from the drawer and put it in his 


216 


Ebb and Flow. 


pocket. But that is not all. I charged him with the 
theft and made him give the money up, and then, 
with a wee breeze about his ears, I dismissed him.” 

For a few moments Bose looked as if she would 
faint; then she recovered herself, and said, “Then 
Mark is innocent ? ” 

“ As innocent as the babe unborn. Did you know 
aught of his being charged with theft ? ” 

“ I did. George told me several weeks ago.” 

“ Bose, you are to be as a stranger to him from this 
out, for there can be no excuse for his malice toward 
our poor Mark.” 

“ Bone but that he was a bit jealous, perhaps.” 

“Well, you would not think that a reason for sueh 
a base act. Perhaps the money came good to him, 
but I think he took it simply so that Mark would be 
suspected and sent away. You see, lassie, nothing 
can palliate his offense.” 

“ Bo, grandfather, no. I give him up.” 

“ Bless you for those words, my bairn ! Come here 
and give me a kiss, that I may know you do not blame 
me.” 

She obeyed, and her eyes were full of tears as she 
said, “ I do not blame you, but it is so hard, so sud- 
den.” 

“ Ay, it is that ; and I suppose you must weep like 
any other lass ; only see that you come out strong on 
the side of right and justice.” 


An Awkward Lover. 


217 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

AN AWKWARD LOVER. 

Judith Morrison had grown very feeble, but 
Angus Donley, true to his promise, did not allow her 
to want for any thing. Dolly was now a smart, good- 
looking girl of twenty. She was very attractive, but 
suitors came only to be dismissed. Judith was not a 
little tried with her granddaughter, for, knowing that 
her own time was short, she was anxious to see her 
settled in life. However, she said nothing until 
Tommy Burns became attentive to Dolly; then she 
spoke, saying, “ Dolly, you would do weel to close in 
wi’ such an offer.” 

“I do not think so, grand anther.” 

“ Why, what is wrong wi’ Tommy? ” 

“ Naething, but I don’t want him to be mair than a 
friend to me.” 

“You are a strange lass. Whom do you want?” 

“ I havena said that I want ony body.” 

“ And you havena said that you dinna want some- 
body.” 

Dolly did not reply, and Judith left off talking to 
her. 

Angus watched Dolly narrowly without seeming to 
do so. He often thought that she might soon marry 
and leave them, and then he pictured how dull and 
lonely the old cottage would be without her. The 
thought that he could win her himself had hardly 


218 


Ebb and Flow. 


crossed his mind ; still, as she let her chances slip, 
he began to indulge a faint hope. 

One evening Judith was feeling very poorly. The 
sun had but just gone down, and Angus had not yet 
returned from his work, when she said, “ Dolly, I be- 
lieve I will gang to rest ; I feel that tired.” 

“ Are you sick, grandmither ? ” 

“ I canna deny that I am some sick.” 

Judith went to her room, and Dolly sat down in the 
door within call. 

Presently Angus came home, and, not seeing his 
aunt, he asked Dolly, “ Where is Aunt Judith ? ” 

“ She has gone to her bed. She isna feeling weel 
to-night.” 

“ Dolly, she is failing fast. Havena you seen it ? ” 

“ Ay, I have seen it. She willna be long wi’ us,” 
replied Dolly, with a little quiver in her voice. 

“Poor lass! You will miss her sorely, and I will 
miss you both, and wander a homeless man again.” 

Dolly gave a little start of surprise that did not 
escape Angus. When he spoke again it was to say, 
“ I never could tell the thoughts of another. Some- 
times I wish I could.” 

He paused, and Dolly, too, was silent, when he 
continued, “ I say, Dolly, did you ever feel that you 
would like to ken ony body’s thoughts ? ” 

“ Sometimes.” 

“ Have you, though ? ” 

There was another lull in the conversation, and 
when it was resumed Angus said, “ It mostly does not 
concern me what folk think, but o’ late I liae thought 
it would be weel for me if I could ken somebody’s 
mind.” 


An Awkward Lover. 219 

“ If it is proper for you to ken it might be weel to 
ask.” 

“ Ay, there it is ! It is sometimes hard to make 
out what is proper and what isna.” 

Another long pause was followed by the not very 
new remark, “You see, Dolly, I might think a ques- 
tion proper that wasna proper, and then I would 
make a sad mistake.” 

“And if it were proper,” said Dolly, now laughing, 
“ you might make a mistake if you didna ask it.” 

“ Ay, but if matters were made worse by the ask- 
ing it better not be asked. So what can a body do, 
Dolly?” 

“ A body could ask and run the risk.” 

“ But if a body loses the wee bit o’ comfort o’ his 
life by seeking to get a better hold o’ it, what then ? ” 

“Why, then he only fails in seeking to better his 
condition, as many hae done.” 

“ Ay, lass, but I couldna stand the failure,” Angus 
replied, in an unsteady voice. 

Dolly was touched and sobered, and she said, “ An- 
gus, speak out if you hae a wish to ken my mind 
about any thing.” 

“ I will speak out, and that before my courage fails 
me. Could you find it in your heart to love old 
Angus Donley ? ” 

“ I would hae to make na new discovery to find it, 
Angus.” 

“ God bless you, my sweet lass ! ” said Angus, quite 
overcome with emotion. “ It is more than I dared 
hope.” 

When Judith knew how matters stood she was but 
half pleased. “ I find no fault wi’ Angus,” she said, 


220 


Ebb and Flow. 


“and it would be like finding fault with my bread 
and butter ; but, Dolly, the match seems unnatural. 
As a rule it isna weel for a couple to marry when 
there is such a difference in their ages. The first 
thing you ken Angus will be an auld man, and you 
willna think alike, and it will be unpleasant for you, 
Dolly. I ken that you will do your duty; I dinna 
doubt that for one single moment ; but, my dear lass, 
as I said, it willna be pleasant.” 

“Grandmither, must I think o’ myself first? Are 
there no kindnesses to repay ? ” 

“Ay, lass, but wdien one repents afterward of a 
step like that it isna kindness, but cruelty.” 

“ I shall not repent. I love Angus weel, aside from 
all he has done for me. He has never given me a 
cross word nor lpok, and it is worth something to ken 
a man’s disposition. I havena seen much of the world, 
but I ken that a great deal of unhappiness comes from 
an unbridled temper.” 

“ How long hae you thought that you loved An- 
gus?” asked Judith. 

“ I hae long kenned that I loved him.” 

“Weel, gang your own way, lassie. I didna mean 
to wound you, but I was so afeard that you mistook 
your ain feeling. Ay, gang your ain way, and let it 
a’ be settled before my head is doun. You hae my 
blessing.” 

Dolly saw the propriety of this, and Angus was 
in favor of a speedy marriage ; and so a few weeks 
later Mr. Robinson spoke the words that made them 
one. 

The event caused some remarks, but none of them 
reached Dolly’s ears. Tommy Burns said nothing,- 


An Awkward Lover. 


221 


but he thought the more, and he resolved that since 
he had lost Dolly he would lead a single life. 

Judith soon felt perfectly satisfied with her grand- 
daughter’s choice. She lived but a few months after 
the marriage, and died peacefully, regretted alike by 
Angus and Dolly. 


222 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“THAT GOOD GRAY HEAD.” 

There was joy again in the pretty little cottage 
between the school-house and the manse, for the 
school-master was the happy father of twins. A son 
and a daughter were born to him. Mrs. Raeburn 
thought of Lilias, for she knew that the double joy 
was also a double care. However, a handy, good- 
natured lass was secured, who took the place of maid 
of all work and left Lilias with nothing but the care 
of her children. 

The son was at once named Lewis, but the mother 
would not call the daughter by the name that had 
been given to the little one gone from her arms, for 
she felt that she still had a little Lilias whom she 
would claim in heaven. All the friends thought that 
Lily was a pretty name for the baby, and so she re- 
ceived this name in baptism. 

This was always an impressive ceremony to Mr. 
Robinson and the members of his church, and on this 
occasion it had an unusual interest. It was at once a 
pleasant and a solemn scene. The relation between 
him who performed the rite and those to whom it was 
administered was a very tender one. Although two 
generations came between them the aged servant of God 
felt that the children were his own flesh and blood, 
and very tenderly he looked down upon them as he 
set upon their foreheads the seal of the covenant. 


“That Good Gray Head” 


223 


The congregation were pleased with the picture be- 
fore them as age and infancy met. The frosts of 
eighty winters had whitened and thinned the hairs of 
their pastor’s head, but they had not frozen his smile 
nor quenched the light of love in his kind eyes. They 
were as innocent and trustful in their expression as 
those of the little ones before him, who had } T et to 
meet what he had met unharmed. And with these 
thoughts came sadder ones, for never before had he 
appeared so feeble. As they wended their way 
homeward many of his people expressed a fear that 
he would not long go in and out before them. 

Lewis and his wife felt this same fear, and their 
hearts were very sad. They were pleased that he 
paid them a visit early in the week, and they had a 
long talk upon their obligations and duties to their 
children. Many needed hints and much needed in- 
struction the young parents received from him, and 
they were thankful for them. 

At length the conversation turned upon worldly 
wealth and the enjoyment it is supposed to bring. 

“ I pity from my heart that person whose happiness 
rests upon such a sandy foundation as riches,” said 
Mr. Robinson. 

Lewis smilingly replied, “ I pity them, too, grand- 
father, but at the same time I think a fair share of 
worldly prosperity makes one happy.” 

“What do you call a fair share? Have you it, 
think you ? ” 

“ Perhaps I have. I do not mean to complain, but 
a little more means would add to our convenience, not 
to say comfort.” 

“ Don’t say comfort, for you are very comfortable 


224 


Ebb and Flow. 


here. I often think as I sit here, ‘ How comfortable 
they are ! ’ I like a scene of domestic happiness like 
this, and I think God’s blessing rests npon homes like 
this, homes built up in love, held together by love, 
and supported by honest, persevering industry — 
homes where smiles are frequent and tears are 
strangers, where the voices of children are heard ; 
ay, where the walls resound with their glee as the old 
manse did, Lewis, when you children were there. 
Catharine, poor, dear heart ! used to think that the noise 
annoyed me. I wish I might never hear sounds less 
welcome.” 

“Those were happy days, grandfather. After 
mother began to regain her spirits I think three hap- 
pier children could not be found.” 

“ And I think that your happiness lost nothing in 
after years, when you and the Raeburn children 
seemed like one family, as indeed you have since be- 
come. The Lord has been good to us all, Lewis. Our 
joys have outnumbered our sorrows.” 

“ Ay, that is so,” replied Lewis, taking a child on 
either knee. “ The Lord took one bairn and gave us 
two. We shall never forget our wee Lilias, but we 
do not grudge her to Him who has more than made 
up our loss to us.” 

“ Never grudge any thing to God, for all we have 
is his, and if he leaves us little or much he is still 
gracious. I know that human nature is rebellious and 
slow to yield up any thing it holds dear, but when 
once grace enters our hearts our natures partake 
something of the divine nature, and faith and obe- 
dience make us submissive.” 

It was evening, and the stars were out when Mr. 


“ That Good Gray Head.” 


225 


Robinson took leave of Lilias. Lewis walked over 
to the manse with him. 

“‘The heavens declare the glory of God, and the 
firmament showeth his handiwork,’ ” said the aged 
man, looking upward. 

“ What an innumerable company of stars are out 
to-night ! ” said Lewis. 

“ Ay, and what an innumerable company there are 
above the stars, who shall shine even as they do, and 
that for ever and ever.” 

The good man seemed to be lost in thought, but 
presently he continued: “Our own dear ones are 
among the number.” 

“ All our dear ones ? ” asked Lewis, thinking of his 
father. 

“ All our dear ones are in the good Lord’s hands,” 
Mr. Robinson answered, with unusual tenderness. 

“ Grandfather, is it not an awful thought that comes 
to us sometimes — the thought that our friends have 
died without hope ? ” 

“Yes, it is truly awful, and it should lead us to 
double our diligence to save the living. Those who 
have already passed over are beyond our prayers and 
entreaties. Those who remain are ours to plead with 
and pray for.” 

They had come to the end of their walk, for Mr. 
Robinson was at his own door. He kindly invited 
Lewis in, but he replied, “ Hot this time. I must go 
back to Lilias and the bairns.” 

15 


226 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

“HE’S AWAV 

A sudden gloom hung over the manse and even 
over the entire parish. The aged and revered pastor 
was stricken with apoplexy. Mrs. Gilmore suffered 
deeply under her heavy affliction, for since her chil- 
dren had gone to homes of their own her father had 
been doubly dear to her. She bore up beneath her 
sorrow, for she had faith to believe that the passage 
would be short and swift from this world of death and 
sorrow to the land of bliss and eternal happiness. The 
good man’s words had all been said, for he never spoke 
after he was taken ill. Daughter, grandchildren, and 
other warm and loving friends hovered near, hoping 
for a few more words of affection and encouragement, 
or even a sign of recognition, but in vain. His senses, 
as well as his tongue, seemed locked forever. And 
yet the Christians around him were well assured that 
it would not be forever. 

At length Mrs. Gilmore spoke sadly : “ My dear 
bairns, we listen vainly for the well-loved and familiar 
voice. It will not greet our ears again till we reach 
the other shore. But it does not matter so much, after 
all, for we have already had so many, many precious 
lessons, so many words of encouragement, and so many 
proofs of his love. What could he more say? Let 
us treasure up his words and his teachings as things 
dear to memory and follow him as he followed Christ. 


227 


“He’s Awa’.” 

Nay, rather let ns do as he was wont to say, follow no 
man but Christ only, and following him we shall meet 
our dear father in heaven.” 

Lewis and Alfred were not ashamed to mingle their 
tears with Mary’s and their mother’s. Other strong 
men turned away from the bedside to hide the grief 
they could not check. Mrs. Raeburn passed silently and 
swiftly from room to room, taking the management of 
household matters, that they might not burden hearts 
that were sadder than her own. Often her own eyes 
were wet while she inwardly thanked God for such a 
friend as Mr. Robinson. She remembered how he had 
comforted her in times of need and taught her to ac- 
cept her joys and blessings with gladness and single- 
ness of heart. 

The parishioners came and went, for they esteemed 
it a privilege to look once more on the placid face before 
life was extinct. Nor did they fail to speak words of 
comfort to the sorrowing household, while they felt 
that they themselves were losing a spiritual father and 
were ready to take up the lamentation of Elisha : 
“ The chariot of Israel, and the horsemen thereof ! ” 

The fourth day of Mr. Robinson’s illness was clos- 
ing in when the family noticed a change. They gath- 
ered about the bedside, and ere the stars came out he 
who had so lately looked at them in admiration had 
gone to be with his loved ones and to “ shine as the 
stars for ever and ever.” 

All over the parish the neighbors met with sad faces, 
and without a word of greeting said, “ He’s awa’.” 
There was no need to say who was gone ; the common 
loss had been already felt, and it only remained to be 
said, “ The soul of our pastor is free.” 


228 


Ebb and Flow. 


Angus Donley carried tlie news to liis wife. He 
had looked on the familiar face as it lay in the repose 
of death, and the thought that he would hear no more 
spiritual teachings from those sealed lips stirred him 
to the depths of his heart. 

“Lost opportunities! lost opportunities!” he sadly 
said to himself as he walked across the meadows and 
crossed the stile in front of his own door. “He’s 
awa’, Dolly,” he said, and Dolly’s only answer was a 
heavy sigh. 

“ You sigh, Dolly, and weel yon may ; for we 
willna see his like again. O, that I had heeded his 
words ! I felt this as I looked upon the lips that were 
closed forever.” 

“ Let the closed lips bring their ain lessons hame 
to your heart. Recall the words that hae passed 
through them. Hever-to-be-forgotten words let them 
be because o’ the good they may yet do. Ay, Angus, 
let this death cause you to awaken into that life over 
which the second death has no power. ‘He being 
dead yet speaketh,’ ” murmured Dolly, as she brushed 
away a tear and went to bring the Bible that Angus 
might read it and so fasten his good impression. 

She had been too well taught by the pious Judith 
to let such an opportunity pass without improving 
it. Dolly had early given her best affections to the 
Lord, and she contentedly traveled her humble walk 
of life, not knowing the bustle and jar and strife of 
worldly hearts for worldly pleasures. If any prefer- 
ment had been offered her she would have replied, 
“ I dwell among my own people.” 

The next morning found Angus Donley still strug- 
gling with unrest. The death-scene, his wife’s serious 


“ He’s Aw a’.” 


229 


words, the Bible-reading, all conspired to fasten eter- 
nal realities upon his mind. When Dolly went to 
the manse to lend a helping hand he remained within 
the cottage and besought God’s grace till the dark- 
ness gave away and the light appeared. And when 
on the funeral-day he looked his last upon the pas- 
tor’s face it was with a new hope in Him who said, 
“ I am the resurrection and the life.” 

Sad, solemn days followed for Mrs. Gilmore. Hot 
until her father’s burial did it occur to her mind that 
the pleasant manse must be given up. The home 
that had been hers for so many years would be hers 
no longer. The grandchildren, too, felt that no new- 
comer could love the dear familiar rooms as they 
had loved them. 

All Mrs. Gilmore’s three children offered her a 
home, but she chose to live with Lewis, in sight of 
the dear old manse. Lilias welcomed her with a 
daughter’s affection, and the twins beguiled her lone- 
liness, so that she grew to be quite happy in her new 
home. 

The people were blessed in the choice of their new 
minister, but it was long before they ceased to miss 
the old face in the pulpit and became accustomed to 
the new. The new pastor’s name was Alexander 
Barclay. He had a wife and two small children. 
Mrs. Barclay was a sweet, sunny-tempered woman, 
and all the parish enjoyed calling at the manse, and 
the general verdict was that the “ minister’s wife 
seems to be a right pleasant woman.” Especially did 
Mrs. Gilmore and Mrs. Barclay draw together, for the 
new pastor’s wife was ever ready to show her love 
and sympathy for the sorrowing. 


230 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

UNCLE MARK’S VISIT. 

Although Mrs. Gilmore Lad changed homes Mrs. 
Raeburn still occupied the cottage that had so long 
sheltered her and hers. Still, there were some changes, 
for Mary was mistress of the house, and Mrs. Rae- 
burn’s position was one of honor and ease. The 
dream of Mark’s boyhood was realized, for his open 
purse supplied all his mother’s wants. 

But if Mary was mistress Norman was most em- 
phatically master. One child had been given them, 
a little boy, whom Norman, in tender regard for his 
dead brother, named Walter. The little Walter was 
a great pet of his grandmother, and he was often 
nestling in her lap, his head resting on her shoulder. 
She fancied that he resembled her own Walter, and the 
other friends thought so too. Norman thought that 
he was perfect, and he was very anxious to show him 
to Mark, who was daily expected. 

Mark’s visits were very infrequent, for his uncle 
had become quite dependent upon him. However, 
he had promised his mother that he would visit home 
at midsummer. Perhaps that was the reason why 
Mrs. Raeburn sat at the window with such a pleased, 
expectant face, though it was not time for the stage- 
coach. Little Walter had gone asleep on her lap, but 
she did not lay him down, she held him tenderly, often 
looking into the innocent face as if she thought it a 


Uncle Mark’s Visit. 


231 


pleasant picture. Mary was unusually busy, for slie 
resolved that no lack of effort on her part should mar 
Mark’s visit home. Mrs. Raeburn had plucked with 
her own hands the wild flowers that Mark loved, and 
placed them in the guest-chamber, which was in per- 
fect order, while Norman had literally “killed the 
fatted calf.” So, although Mark had specified no 
time for his arrival, that there might be the pleasure 
of a surprise, all things were in readiness. Mark’s 
coming had been talked of at breakfast and at dinner, 
and the whole family had agreed that he would be 
quite sure to come that Saturday afternoon. With 
this state of expectancy it would have been too bad 
if the stage had not stopped before the door ; but it 
did stop, and a well-dressed young gentleman stepped 
out. Mary and the mother met in the hall, each 
anxious to tell the other, “ Mark has come.” By the 
time he had kissed and embraced his mother Nor- 
man had come in from the field, and there was a 
wonderful hand-shaking. 

The next moment Norman held up his boy for his 
uncle’s inspection, saying, “ Here is our Walter.” 

“ Give me the wee man,” said Mark, holding out 
his hands; but the “wee man” was just at that age 
to begin to show fear of strangers, and he clung to 
his father. 

“ O, you little rogue, you don’t know your friends ! 
Why, I am your own kinsman, Walter.” As he 
mentioned the name Mark grew suddenly grave and 
said, “ May he have all the graces and none of the 
weakness of the Walter that is gone ! ” 

These words damped their joys, but the sad past was 
soon set aside, and their spirits rose again. 


232 


Ebb aitd Flow. 


Mark put off liis wonted dignity, and every familiar 
nook was visited before dark. A cheerful party 
gathered around the supper-table, and it was a pleasant 
hour to all. It was a time to ask and answer questions, 
a time for old jokes, old sayings, old memories ; but no 
unpleasant allusions were made. It was evident that 
Mark and Norman had perfect good-will and brotherly 
love for each other. Mary had become a very sensi- 
ble woman, and she knew no regret on account of 
her choice between the two brothers. If she some- 
times thought her husband rather stubborn and exact- 
ing she knew that these faults took the place of graver 
ones, and she tried not to feel hurt and offended. 
So it was quite a happy household. 

Before Mark and Norman parted that night they 
talked over old times together, and Mark said : “ Well, 
Norman, I am glad of your happiness, and I do not 
grudge it for one moment. You and Mary are well 
suited to each other; in fact, you seem made for each 
other. Mother thinks so too, and she is much pleased 
with you both. I had hoped to have mother with 
me, but it is well as it is. I shall come to see you 
all as often as I can, and that must content me. My 
home will be in Perth as long as Uncle Robert lives. 
After he is gone there will be some change, I know 
not what.” 

“ I suppose Rose is married,” said Norman. 

“ No, she is not, nor likely to be.” 

“ How is that, Mark ? ” 

“ The fellow proved himself unworthy of her.” 

u Perhaps you will stand a chance yet.” 

“ I shall have to be pretty sure of it before I try it. 
The romance is pretty well shaken out of me. I get 


Uncle Mark’s Visit. 


233 


vei T good care from Edith and Rose, and I shall 
probably become a tolerably happy old bachelor.” 

Norman merely smiled in reply, and the subject 
was dropped. 

Mark had never told his family of the trouble that 
he had through Riddell, for he thought that his mother 
had suffered enough on his account. And so she had, 
but she had no more anxiety over him now. 

But we must not forget Mark’s visit to Lilias and 
other friends. Lewis gave him a cordial, brotherly 
welcome, and their long-standing friendship fitted 
them to enjoy each other’s society. Lilias was greatly 
pleased with Mark. She had long since forgiven 
and nearly forgotten the one fault of his life. Her 
children were bright, friendly little things, and Mark, 
like the good old pastor, thought this home a pretty 
scene of domestic happiness. 

Every-where he went he was received with friend- 
liness, and yet he missed some faces he had been 
wont to see. He gazed at the manse, and his eyes 
filled as he thought of the good man who had passed 
from earth. He missed Peter and Judith. It seemed 
that he must see Peter in the garden leaning upon 
his hoe as he looked to see who was passing, or Ju- 
dith, on her way to the spring, with a cheery good- 
morning to all she met. Angus and Dolly knew him 
at once, and they gave him a hearty welcome at the 
cottage. Nothing reminded him of his unhappy fall, 
at least no one alluded to it till Farmer McCabe, call- 
ing with Alfred, had the bad taste to say to Mark, 
“You look weel, young man; I trow you have 
learned to let strong drink alone.” 

Mark colored as he answered, “ Yes, sir ; I have.” 


234 


Ebb and Flow. 


Alfred and Lewis looked vexed, and when the 
visitors were gone Mark said, “ There is nothing like 
tact. The old man’s memory is pretty good, Lewis.” 

“ Yes, his memory does him more credit than his 
common sense,” Lewis replied. 


Visiting at Cousin Ellen’s. 


235 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

VISITING AT COUSIN ELLEN’S. 

Mark soon shook off the influence of Mr. McCabe’s 
remark, though he remembered it again that same 
evening and repeated it to his mother. 

“ Well, Mark, that is about all some people know,” 
she said, for she could not help being vexed. Then 
turning the subject she said, “ I have been thinking 
while you were at Lilias’s house that we must go to 
Cousin Ellen’s home before you return to Perth. I 
am ashamed to let twelve miles divide us so, but per- 
haps the other family is as much in fault as we are. 
Only an occasional letter passes between us, and we 
do not visit oftener than once a year at most. Well, 
it is a long and tedious drive, and there are so many 
hills to climb. Let us go to-morrow ; you will be sure 
to enjoy the visit, and you will hear no unpleasant 
allusions there. Aunt Alice and Ellen always know 
what is proper to say, thanks to their good sense, 
and .Roderick is a pleasant man. Did I tell you that 
Alec, the last one of my cousins, is married and gone 
to a home of his own ? ” 

Mark had been resting while his mother talked, and 
now he roused himself to speak : 

“ No ; I did not know that Alec was married. What 
a good thing it has been for Aunt Alice and her boys 
that Roderick took a notion for Ellen ! ” 

“ Yes, I often think so ; and yet Aunt Alice and 


236 


Ebb and Flow. 


my cousins have been no hinderance to Roderick. 
Ellen has a nice family, and she deserves to be pros- 
pered, for she is as ‘ good as the day is long.’ ” 

“ That is hardly an exact standard of goodness, 
mother, since the days vary so much.” 

“Well, then, she is as good as a June day is long, 
and as bright and sunny. In the first years of my 
widowhood I often wished for her and Aunt Alice, 
for their presence seems to comfort. But, Mark, we 
must not sit here and talk if we mean to see Ellen’s 
home to-morrow.” 

Mark and his mother set out next day at six 
o’clock, and both enjoyed the dewy freshness of the 
morning. On the way they had a long confidential 
talk, and they remembered it with pleasure. After 
that day Mrs. Raeburn was perfectly satisfied with 
her son, and she felt that she could trust him always 
and anywhere. 

“ Well, here we are,” said Mark, as they came in 
sight of the Wallace place. 

“ Here we are, sure enough. The drive has seemed 
short to-day,” Mrs. Raeburn replied. 

There were several children playing about the 
door, and their arrival was soon reported in the 
house. One glance of Ellen’s eye told her that her 
cousin Jessie was at the door, but who was the hand- 
some young man beside her was a harder question to 
solve. She cordially greeted Mrs. Raeburn, then 
said, looking hard at Mark, “ This canna be one of * 
your sons, Jessie ? ” 

“ It surely is my son Mark, and I am disappointed 
that you did not know him.” 

“ Weel, Jessie, I could think of no one but Evan, 


Yisiting at Cousin Ellen’s. 23 1 

and since I knew it could not be be I thought it must 
he some one I never saw. But what is more natural 
than that the son should be like his father? But, 
Mark, you have changed wonderfully. I used to 
think you took after the Kenyons.” 

By this time Aunt Alice had entered the room, 
and, after greeting her niece, she asked, “ Which one 
of your lads has grown into such a braw young cal- 
lant ? ” 

“ It is Mark, Aunt Alice.” 

“Well, he has changed a good bit; but, dear 
knows, there is chance for changes between the times 
the families meet. But you are here now, dear Jes- 
sie, and right glad I am to see you.” She called in 
her four granddaughters and presented them. Evi- 
dently she was very proud of the little girls. “You 
ken,” she said, “ that Alice, the eldest, is married and 
gone to a liame o’ her ain, and the three lads are in 
the field with their father. This lassie is my wee 
pet,” she continued, taking the eight-year-old Bessie 
upon her knee. 

Mark smiled at the children, and Mrs. Raeburn re- 
newed her acquaintance with each one, and Maggie, 
Jeannie, Lizzie, and Bessie thought their mother’s 
cousin a very friendly lady. But most of the visiting 
was with Aunt Alice, for she was at leisure, though 
it was a busy season and there was unexpected com- 
pany. She had a great many questions to ask, and 
she had much to tell about herself, her children, and 
her grandchildren. She spoke of the dead, of John, 
of her husband, and of her father and mother-in-law. 
Then she talked of the Lord’s dealing with her through 
all the years of her pilgrimage. She was just say- 


238 


Ebb and Flow. 


ing, “ But I am amaist done with this life,” when 
Roderick entered unexpectedly. 

“ Hoot, Blither!” he said. “You are good for 
mony a year yet.” 

He then shook hands with the visitors, inquired 
after the health of the friends, and made himself very 
agreeable. After dinner he sent his three sons, Rob- 
ert, John, and Andrew, back to- the field with the 
hired men, and he stayed in the house to help enter- 
tain the company. Ellen, too, left the after-dinner 
work with her daughters, for there was no servant 
needed in this home where thrift and industry pre- 
vailed. The little girls soon dispatched their work, 
and one after another dropped into the parlor. They 
were a little shy, though all were well-mannered and 
interesting, while Jeannie and Bessie were handsome. 
Mark was a little disappointed that he saw no more 
of the boys, for he was much pleased with their ap- 
pearance, and in the course of the afternoon he went 
to pay them a short visit in the hay-field. lie pitched 
hay and enjoyed it, while his cousins complimented 
him upon his skill. 

But the afternoon was all too short for all there 
was to do and say, and two hours before sunset 
Mark and his mother started for home. The parting 
was quite affecting, for Alice Kenyon clung to Jessie 
as if loath to let her go. 

“Who knows what may happen before we meet 
again ? ”• she said, as she held her hand in a close 
pressure. 

For a moment all were saddened, for there flashed 
through each mind some sorrow in the past and some 
dread of the untried future. They soon regained their 


Visiting at Cousin Ellen’s. 239 

cheerfulness and spoke their good-byes with smiles, 
and, after many promises to visit oftener in the future, 
Mark and his mother drove away. 

This was but one of the many pleasant visits that 
Mark made while at home, and he turned his face 
toward Perth cheered and encouraged by the confi- 
dence of his friends. 


240 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

ALMOST A TRAGEDY. 

Notwithstanding Mr. Raeburn’s abrupt announce- 
ment of Riddell’s fault lie felt very sorry for Rose. 
He knew that it was a great shock to be forced to lose 
confidence in a person, who had seemed so just and 
honorable and every way worthy of her heart and 
hand. And as he saw her withdrawing from her 
friends and shutting her grief within herself he 
could not withhold his loving sympathy. One day 
he gently laid his hand upon her head and said, 
“ Take heart, Rose ; take heart, my dear little lass. 
You have received a great shock, I know, but you 
must not brood over your grief till you become 
moody. I am anxious to see you as light-hearted and 
care-free as you used to be. And while I feel sorry 
for you, my bairn, I cannot but be glad that you had 
your eyes opened in time to be saved from a life-long 
sorrow. For what 6 fellowship hath light with dark- 
ness,’ and what concord could there be between my 
bonnie, innocent grandchild and that man of falsehood 
and crime ? ” 

She put out her hand as if to stay the words, but they 
were already spoken. “ I cannot help it, lassie,” Mr. 
Raeburn said tenderly. “ I thought you would shed a 
few tears over him, unworthy as he is, and then cast 
him from your heart and mind. But instead of that 
you are likely to lose the roses from your cheeks, and 


Almost a Tragedy. 


241 


I cannot bear it. Wliat shall I do for you ? What 
can I do for you, dearie ? ” 

“ Nothing, grandfather, unless you can restore to 
me some of my lost faith in human nature. He 
seemed so good, so true ! ” 

“Ay, he was a sleek scoundrel. You must not 
think all as false as he. You have known folk all 
your life who have never deceived you, and never 
will. Is not your aunt Edith a bonnie character ? ” 

“ Yes, but Aunt Edith ascribes all praise to the 
grace of God.” 

“ Now you remind me of something I wanted to 
say to you. Trust your happiness with no one who 
has not the help of that same grace. I was a bit un- 
easy about that lack in George Riddell. Perhaps I 
should have spoken of it, but I comforted myself 
with the thought that your Christian example would 
be likely to win him to the right way. But, lassie, 
so long as a man is outside the kingdom of heaven lie 
is outside , and he may never be brought within it. I 
do not speak of these things as often as I should, but 
I hope my heart is more faithful than my tongue. I 
would far rather feel more than I say than say more 
than I feel. Now that Mark has proved himself so 
capable and trustworthy I need not be so engrossed 
in business, and I mean to pay more attention to 
God’s claims upon me. I hope to do some work for 
the Master in the time left to me. I have felt this 
ever since my good friend, the Rev. James Robinson, 
passed away. The last letter I had from him urged 
me to more, active work in the cause of Christ. He 
explained that one dwarfs his spiritual growth by 
remaining passive, and that Christianity should be 
16 


212 


Ebb ajsd Flow. 


aggressive. Although there is but a remnant of days 
left to me I mean to be more faithful.” 

Rose seemed quite interested, and she said, “ How 
strange that your friendship with Mr. Robinson lasted 
through so many years ! It is not like the friendships 
of this world.” 

“ Rot like most of them, perhaps, but like some 
of them. There are many friendships formed during 
school-life that last a life-time, as ours has done. 
The friendship of Damon and Pythias will always be 
remembered, but there is many a college lad who 
would willingly lack food, sleep, and any other earthly 
good that his fellow-student, his special friend, should 
want nothing. O, Rose, the world is net so bad as 
you think. There is a great deal of evil in men’s 
hearts, and there is a great deal of good. Your 
cousin Mark is a fine fellow', Rose, a fine fellow,” he 
repeated. 

Rose did not reply, and the grandfather continued, 
“ I have a mind to take him into partnership at the 
end of the year. "What do you think of the plan ? 
Edith thinks well of it.” 

“ Why, grandfather, I have nothing to say. Do as 
you please, of course. I like Mark very much, and I 
shall be glad of any prosperity that comes to him.” 

“ Y cry w r ell, then, I will think that his promotion 
will please you. New Year’s morning I will an- 
nounce my intentions to Mark himself.” 

When Mark heard what his uncle proposed to do 
for him he was greatly surprised and pleased, and 
that New Year’s day was the happiest day of his 
life. The following week the sign-board received 
a change. Instead of “ Robert Raeburn,” it read, 


Almost a Tragedy. 


243 


“Robert Raeburn & Co.” Mark had made many 
friends, and lie received a great deal of congratula- 
tion upon his good fortune. 

But there was one person who thought this was the 
last drop in liis cup of mortification and bitterness, 
and, meeting Mark late one dark night, George Rid- 
dell shot at him. The ball missed Mark, but a second 
shot, better aimed, passed through his right arm. He 
had the presence of mind to fall to the ground as if 
badly wounded, and he tried to think how he could 
save the keys of the store if his pockets should be 
rifled. But the pistol was held close to his temple, and 
his pockets were emptied of all valuables, keys included. 
Then, to Mark’s great joy, footsteps were heard ap- 
proaching. Riddell arose and giving Mark a slight 
kick, said, “ Lie there, dead dog. I have had satis- 
faction at last,” and hurried away. Mark was not 
far from his uncle’s home, which was a little way out 
of town, and he could easily have made his way there ; 
but he feared that the store would be entered, and, 
though faint from the loss of blood, he went to the 
police-station and made arrangements to have the 
store guarded. 

After Mark had told his story the authorities were 
very anxious to secure Riddell, and two men were 
stationed in the store. About midnight a man was 
discovered trying to effect an entrance, and a few 
moments later George Riddell was under arrest. 
After this had taken place Mark had his arm tended 
and then was taken home. 

Mr. Raeburn had long been asleep, but Miss Edith 
kept watch for Mark, fearing that something had be- 
fallen him. She was greatly shocked when she found 


244 


Ebb and Flow. 


that he had been wounded, but more than this he did 
not tell. The next morning he was unable to leave 
his room, and he confided the whole story to his 
uncle. 

“Well, laddie,” the old gentleman replied, “ throw 
off all care about the matter now. Your arm will be 
well attended, and, please God, you will soon be well. 
Riddell will never trouble you again, for this job of 
his will fix him. Imprisonment for life is what he 
deserves, and he will get it, no doubt.” 

Miss Edith carefully waited upon Mark, and Rose, 
too, wished to be of some service. But she was much 
agitated, and she kept apart in her room most of the 
time. Riddell had more than once asked for an inter- 
view, and on the very night of the shooting he had 
sent her a note importuning her to see him. This 
she refused to do, and she sent him an answer that 
ran thus : 

“We are nothing to each other. I wish no ex- 
planation. Your confession that you wronged Mark 
through jealousy is quite sufficient for me. A man 
that is capable of doing such a deed may easily do 
worse.” 

No doubt her answer enraged Riddell and urged 
him on to his dark deed — a deed which cost him his 
liberty while he lived, for Mr. Raeburn’s prediction 
was correct. Imprisonment for life was liis sentence. 
Mr. Raeburn, in speaking of it, said, “ Did I not say, 
Mark, that envy would defeat itself ? ” 

Mark was soon in his place in the store, and all his 
uncle’s family were much more attached to him. 
They shuddered when they thought how easily he 
might have been murdered to satisfy the hatred of a 


Almost a Tragedy. 


245 


bad man, and Mark himself felt that but for God’s 
care over him he would have been in another world. 

When Riddell’s trial was passed and his sentence 
fixed Rose seemed to become her old self. She never 
spoke of him afterward, except to ask her Annt Edith 
if she thought it the duty of Christians to pray for 
such as he. Being answered in the affirmative, she 
said : “ Then I will pray for him ; more I cannot do, 
and less I cannot do. Since the blood of Christ cleans- 
eth from all sin he — I will not name him — may leave 
his prison here for liberty beyond.” 

This was almost too much for Miss Edith’s faith, 
but she answered, “ Rone can tell what the grace of 
God may do. We all are sinners in his sight, and 
we do well to pray for those who have sinned more 
deeply than ourselves.” 


24 G 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE WIDOW CRAIK’S COW. 

Farmer McCabe was, as we have said, surprised 
that Alfred Gilmore remained so long outside the 
Church, and* when Alfred went to live in his house he 
was in his turn surprised to see how much importance 
his father-in-law attached to the fact that he was a 
church member. The connection with the Church 
seemed to meet his ideas of right and to satisfy his 
conscience. Nelly and her mother were different ; if 
they had been like the father Alfred would have had 
a poor opinion of church members generally ; for it 
may be remembered that he went to live at McCabe's 
shortly after his conversion, and his ideas would nat- 
urally receive a coloring from the lives of those who 
had been longer in the way. As it was, he set his 
father-in-law down as one who, professing to serve 
God, nevertheless was trying to serve God and mam- 
mon. 

Every year Mr. McCabe gave less and less for the 
support of the Gospel, and finally he dropped his 
charities entirely. He had been somewhat afraid of 
Mr. Robinson, but he thought the new minister gave 
him a chance to make a change. 

It had been an unusually hard winter ; the snow lay 
deep, and the cold was very severe. Every generous- 
hearted man or woman thought of the poor in their 
midst, and their contributions w T ere unusually large. A 


The "Widow Ckaik’s Cow. 


247 


poor widow with three small children had nothing to 
feed her cow, which was her main support. Farmer 
McCabe, whose barn w T as filled at harvest-time, and 
still showed signs of plenty, was asked to give “ a wee 
jag o’ hay for the Widow Craik’s cow.” But he 
shook his head, saying, “ I canna tell how I am com- 
ing out mysel’ ; the winter isna over yet.” 

Both Alfred and Tommy were present, and Alfred 
said aside to his father-in-law, “ You surely can spare 
a little. You know ‘lie that givetli to the poor lend- 
etli to the Lord.’ ” 

“ Ay, that is all so ; but it stands a body in hand to 
look out for himself first.” 

Alfred turned away disgusted wfitli such selfishness, 
and, determined to do something for the poor woman, 
he said to Tommy, “We will see what can be done 
about this matter, wont w T e ? ” 

“ With all my heart,”* Tommy replied ; “ I was just 
thinking that I maun do something.” 

The next day they drove away, only saying that 
they w r ould be back before night. They went for the 
purpose of purchasing hay of a farmer who lived 
three miles aw r ay, but the farmer was not at home, 
and they waited for his return. So it was late before 
they -delivered their gift and received Widow Craik’s 
thanks and blessing. Mr. McCabe began to fret and 
fume, and at last he gave vent to his impatience. 

“ If I had another son-in-law and another hired 
man I could do all the work myself. The more help 
you have the less you have.” 

Nelly spoke up, saying, “ Father, Alfred will surely 
be home in time to see to every thing. Sit down, and 
don’t, fret.” 


248 


Ebb and Flow. 


But his temper was roused, and he went to the 
barn with his pipe in his month. In his excitement 
he forgot the risk he was running, and he climbed 
upon the hay-mow. The door was open for light, 
and a gust of wind blew in. Then he thought of 
danger. He clapped his thumb over the pipe, pushed 
the contents down till the fire was out, and then put 
it in his pocket, saying, “Lucky I thought in time ! ” 
He had thrown down enough fodder, and he clam- 
bered down as fast as he could, for he wanted to 
finish the work that he might complain of it. He 
hurried to the stable, and when he went back to the 
barn after the rest of the hay the mow was in a blaze. 
A live spark had fallen into it, and his care and cau- 
tion had come too late. 

His presence of mind left him, and he could do 
nothing. In fact, nothing was to be done, and by 
the time Alfred and Tommy came in sight the blaze 
had burst through the roof. They drove on at all 
speed, but the barn was past their help. However, 
they were in time to drive the cattle and horses and 
sheep to a place of safety. After the fire had sub- 
sided their first care was to find shelter for the poor 
animals that had suffered from cold and fear. 

“ There is room for two cows in our byre,” said 
Tommy, “and the sheep can be driven under the 
sliiel. It is small, but they can huddle closer to- 
gether.” 

By dint of much planning the animals were all 
housed, and then the three men sought their own fire- 
sides. Alfred feared that he would hear loud and 
bitter complaints ; but his father-in-law simply asked, 
“ Are the beasts all housed ? ” 


The Widow Cr aik’s Cow. 


249 


“ Ay, they are well housed at last,” was the reply ; 
whereupon Farmer McCabe rose and without another 
word went to his bed. 

Alfred remained up all night to watch lest the fire 
should break out anew and work more mischief for 
them. Happily nothing of the kind occurred, and 
the gray light of the early morning found all three 
men standing together over the ruins of a well-built, 
well-filled barn. Nothing was left but a heap of 
ashes in the surrounding snow. 

No one spoke till Alfred said, “'Well, we must be- 
stir ourselves and get some hay for the cattle and 
horses.” 

A low groan was the only response from Mr. 
McCabe, and Tommy said, “ I better hitch up the 
team at ance.” 

“Ay, the sooner the better. I am thankful that 
there are a few bags of oats in the old kitchen cham- 
ber,” said Alfred. 

The young men were going “ their ways,” when 
they were surprised to hear McCabe muttering to 
himself, “ Good enough for me ! Good enough for me ! 
God kens how we deal wi’ the widow and orphan. 
I may weel say now that I dinna ken how I am com- 
ing out myseP.” 

A busy time followed. Timbers were felled, lum- 
ber purchased, workmen hired, every thing was 
done to dispatch the building in the quickest pos- 
sible time. There were many comments, and McCabe 
received little sympathy from any one. Even his 
wife said to Nelly, “ I hope that your father will learn 
that he is but the steward of what he holds, and that 
to the Lord belong the earth and the fullness of it.” 


250 


Ebb and Flow. 


“Ay, if he would but learn at last,” sighed his 
daughter, who was both weary and ashamed of his 
niggardliness.. 

Mrs. Raeburn, speaking of the subject to Norman, 
said : “ Mr. McCabe always seemed to be exempt from 
the changes of fortune, and loss must really be a great 
trial to him. Well, what seems good to us is often 
evil, and what seems evil is sometimes our chiefest 
good. Who knows but this event may be the cause 
of spiritual growth ? ” 

“ Who knows, indeed? If it makes him more gen- 
erous it surely will be a spiritual growth, and that will 
be a change that people have ceased to hope for. He 
has been growing worse every year.” 

All through the building McCabe said very little, 
and all wondered at his patience ; for it was a virtue 
of which he never had a large supply. When the 
barn had been raised he said one evening as he sat 
by his fireside, “Alfred, no doubt you mind weel 
how I refused to give Widow Craik a wee jag o’ 
hay ? ” 

Alfred bowed assent, and the old man continued : 
“Weel, never did a man sin mair against his con- 
science, and I take it that the Lord gied me a lesson 
to prevent me from becoming a miser a’ together. 
And if any ane o’ you sees me gaing on as I liae 
done these last years say to me, 6 Mind, it took mair 
hay to feed the flames than would hae fed the wid- 
ow’s coo.’ ” 

All were very quiet, though a smile slowly broke 
over his wife’s face, and she said, “ Duncan, I doubt 
not that you will be the gainer for a’ your loss.” 

“Ay,” said Nelly, “there is a loss compared to 


The Widow Craik’s Cow. 


251 


which worldly loss is as nothing, and it is well to 
learn to place a proper estimate upon things both 
temporal and spiritual.” 

“You are your mother’s ain bairn, lass, and the 
better for you that you are,” said her father. 

This topic of conversation was renewed when the 
minister came to visit them, nor did McCabe spare 
himself. He confessed his fault, and promised to do 
better in future. “Though to tell the truth, Mr. 
Barclay,” he added, “ I have never given so little as 
since you came among us.” 

“ I am sorry if my coming had such a bad effect,” 
replied the minister. 

“ It isna that, it isna that. It was the grip worldli- 
ness gets upon us in our auld age if we dinna feel that 
our treasures are in heaven.” 

“We will expect to see a change in your contribu- 
tions ; that will be the best proof that you have prof- 
ited by your lesson,” said Mr. Barclay. 

“ I mean you shall see a change ; but I am not able 
to give as much as formerly. I wasna so forehanded 
that I will not feel the loss of the barn. I do calcu- 
late to be more liberal than ever before, and in case I 
forget I have given my family a saying that will jog 
my memory weel, I trow.” 

Mr. Barclay returned home with a better opinion 
of Farmer McCabe, and his own family believed him 
sincere in his new resolves. 


252 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XL. 

‘‘DOLLY, BIDE WITH US.” 

Angus and Dolly lived together very happily. She 
did not regret her choice, and her husband daily grew 
in her esteem and affection ; but she was not long to 
be blessed with his companionship. When they had 
been three years married he sickened, and nothing 
that the physicians could do could effect a cure. His 
trouble was some internal difficulty that could neither 
be reached nor understood, and Angus slowly gave up 
all hope of life. Dolly grieved in secret, though she 
tried to appear hopeful before her husband. He 
watched her closely, and he soon became convinced 
that she had little faith that he would recover. 

One day, toward evening, he came in from a short 
walk pale and tired, and he spoke, saying, “ I wasna 
wont to come home at evening like this, Dolly.” 

“No; but please God you will be yourself again 
soon.” 

He looked in her eyes and replied : “ Dolly, dear, 
if it please God I will ; but I think it willna please 
him to give me back my health again. I ken you 
think so yoursel’ ; but I willna ask you to speak out, 
for it hurts us to confess what we would fain disbe- 
lieve.” 

Dolly’s head went down and the tears streamed 
from her eyes. She wiped them away as soon as 
possible and said: “I willna believe it, nor should 


“Dolly, Bide With Us. 


253 


you. I think it stands in the way of getting well 
to make up your mind that you willna get well.” 

“Ay, that may be so in some cases; but, Dolly, 
there is something the matter wdtli me that courage 
and hope willna help. How long a time I have to 
stop with you I canna tell, and I hae some things to 
say to you. You have been my comforter for many 
years, and for three years you have been my faithfu’, 
loving wife. I ken weei that you loved me, for I 
had naething to recommend me, and you were good 
enough to accept me as I was. But, Dolly, if you 
can bear it, I have something to tell you — something 
that has been on my mind ever since I believed this 
sickness to be mortal. Shall I speak out?” 

“Do as you think best, Angus. Surely I have 
heard the worst since you say you canna live.” 

“ Well, I fear my words will pain you ; but I must 
say them. Tommy Burns will never marry living 
woman unless that woman is yoursel’, and if he asks 
you after I am gone dinna turn awa’ from him. 
There, dinna greet ; I willna speak o’ it again.” 

Angus was very tired, and Dolly helped him get 
ready to rest. Never before had lie- seemed so weak 
and sick, and never before had her heart so failed her. 
When her grandfather was called away her grand- 
mother and Angus were left, and when her grand- 
mother died she still had Angus. But, now that her 
last and dearest earthly friend seemed about to leave 
her, a sense of desolation, such as she had never 
known before, came over her. The weariness of 
Angus caused him to sleep soundly, and she could 
indulge in the luxury of tears without fear of disturb- 
ing him. 


251 


Ebb and Flow. 


The deep snows and the heavy frosts of that severe 
winter had left them, and all that long spring day the 
hills and the dells had been warmed by the breath of 
the south winds. The sun had kissed all nature into 
gladness, and it had inspired Dolly, too, with new 
hopes for the health of her husband. “ It needs but 
this,” she had thought, “to bring back health and 
vigor.” But, alas ! how suddenly had her joy been 
damped, her hopes destroyed. Those words of Angus, 
so full of dreadful conviction, could not be sent from 
her mind. Hour after hour passed, and Dolly wept 
and prayed by turns before her grief spent itself. 
When she grew calmer she arose and barred the door, 
and after once more committing herself and her sick 
husband to God’s care she laid herself down to rest. 

She slept till the sunlight awakened her, and she 
opened her eyes with a thrill of pleasure, for she 
always loved the sunshine ; but the pain of the pre- 
vious night soon came back with crushing force. 
“ Was Angus indeed going from her, and would she 
be left a widow, with no relatives?” She could hope 
for nothing else. Her morning duties were quickly 
done, and she did not waken Angus to partake of 
their morning meal, for she prepared none. She 
knew that sleep would do him more good than the 
slight meal he would make, and she was not hungry. 
When, at last, Angus wakened he was still weary, 
though he arose and dressed himself. He would take 
no breakfast but a drink of milk ; but Dolly cooked 
him a dinner with great care. He ate a bit of chicken, 
more to please her than because he relished the food. 
Both were very quiet, the silence became oppressive, 
and at last Angus spoke. 


“Dolly, Bide With Us.” 


255 


“ Dolly, we do wrong to cloud our last days together. 
You have always spoken hopefully, confidently, of 
the rest and happiness of those who die trusting in 
Jesus. Do not now by your sadness weaken me 
in my wish to say, ‘God’s holy will be done.’ He 
kens that this parting is hard, but he has his ain 
wise reasons for it, though they are inscrutable. Noo 
let us trust every thing to the goodness and wisdom 
o’ our heavenly Father and try to be a bit cheerful. 
I weary, Dolly, for one o’ your smiles.” 

Dolly smiled, but her face grew sadder than before. 

“ That will do now, though it was but a half smile. 
Later on you will do better than that for me.” 

And later in the day she did smile as they talked 
of the time when she was a “ wee lass ; ” and she 
joined the conversation as if forgetful of their ap- 
proaching separation. 

Their friends, the Raeburns, frequently called upon 
them, for the old cottage of Peter and Judith seemed 
to beckon to them ; besides, they had always liked 
Dolly, and found nothing to dislike in Angus. Some- 
times it was Mrs. Raeburn who called, sometimes 
Norman and his wife walked over together, but 
oftener Norman dropped in alone. He knew that 
Angus was failing fast, and now he came almost 
every day. 

Near dusk he said, “Mary, I must go over to 
Donley’s. I feel too tired to go, but some way I have 
an impression that I ought.” 

He rose and went immediately. When he opened 
the door a strange sight met his gaze. Dolly was 
kneeling upon the floor, chafing the cold hands of her 
husband, who had fallen in a death-swoon. She 


256 


Ebb and Flow. 


looked up and said, “ Surely God lias sent you in an- 
swer to prayer ! Bring tlie doctor at ance.” 

But before she ceased speaking both saw by the 
pale light of a candle that all was over. 

A few moments later other neighbors came, called 
in by Norman. The pastor came also, and it took all 
the consolation he could offer as a minister of the Gos- 
pel of Christ to keep the now widowed Dolly from 
being overcome by grief. When the funeral-day 
came they laid Angus in the grave by the side of 
Peter and Judith. 

Dolly clung to the cottage, meaning to live there 
and go out by the day to work, in order to eke out 
her stock of money, which was none too plenty. But 
the minister’s family, needing help, persuaded her to 
give up the cottage. They gave her a good-sized 
room, and thither she took from the old home much of 
the familiar furniture. The large well-worn Bible lay 
upon Judith’s little stand, and a chest of drawers that 
still bore the scratches of Dolly’s baby fingers stood 
in one corner. On the top of this Dolly arranged irt 
the old order shells, highly colored china cups, and 
fanciful glass dishes. A small looking-glass with a 
quaintly carved frame hung on the wall, and about 
it were clustered the small ornaments that had adorned 
Judith’s cottage. The bed was covered with the same 
bright spread, and near it was set the large easy-chair 
that Judith had occupied in her last years. When all 
was completed Dolly surveyed it, and, bursting into 
tears, she said, “ It looks like the old cot, but it isna.” 

However, Dolly did not long yield to her feelings ; 
she soon brightened and presented herself to her 
mistress, saying that she was ready for work. Dolly 


“ Dolly, Bide With Us.” 


257 


proved to be good, faithful help. The children soon 
became very fond of her, and her mistress had im- 
plicit confidence in her. Although she shed many 
tears in the privacy of her own room she troubled no 
one with her grief. She was allowed many privileges 
at the manse, and she felt thankful that she had not 
kept her resolution of living alone with her sorrow. 

A year had passed in service at the manse, and the 
second year was nearly ended when Mr. Barclay came 
home one day and said to his wife, “Tommy Burns’s 
mother is very ill, and the poor fellow cannot find any 
one to nurse her. I have a mind to ask you to let 
Dolly go there for a week. Mrs. Burns’s illness is 
caused by a severe cold, and in a week’s time she must 
either be better or gone. What do you say to Dolly’s 
going?” 

“ I say just this : if Dolly goes there for a week 
she will never come back here to stay.” 

“ O, that is sheer nonsense — all neighbors’ talk. 
Tommy was refused once, and it is not likely that he 
will ask her to marry him now.” 

“ Did you never hear of a man who asked a second 
time \ ” Mrs. Barclay asked, looking up archly. 

“ Yes, I have; and I have known a certain young 
lady to change her mind. But really, I am not afraid 
that we are going to lose our faithful Dolly. She was 
very devoted to Angus.” 

“ Yes, she was ; but that was her goodness. She 
felt that he needed her, and that his life would be 
lonely without her. That is why she, a sprightly lass, 
married a middle-aged man. Now she will see how 
lonely Tommy will be when his mother is gone, and 
he will not have to plead very hard before she con- 
17 


258 


Ebb and Flow. 


sents. You will see that I am right, Alexander, but 
do as you like. After all, if they are for each other 
they will be brought together in some way.” 

“ Certainly,” Mr. Barclay replied ; and he went to 
lay the matter before Dolly. 

“ I will do as you wish,” she said, in reply to his 
question. 

“ Then we wish you to go, for it would be a shame 
to let Aunty Burns suffer for want of care,” said Mr. 
Barclay. 

That evening Tommy Burns stood over the fire 
trying to make some gruel for his mother, when Dolly 
entered. He looked up in embarrassment, and she 
said, “ The master and mistress sent me over to nurse 
your mither for a few days.” 

“ They are very kind to spare you, and you are 
very kind to come,” said Tommy. 

By that time Dolly had removed her bonnet and 
shawl, and he said, “ Weel, I will leave you to finish 
the gruel. I trow it will taste the better for your 
handling.” Then he went to his mother, saying, 
“ You will soon be better now, for the minister’s folks 
have sent Dolly to take care of you.” 

She was still Dolly to every one. Even Tommy, 
wfitli all the delicacy he naturally felt, could not bring 
himself to say Mrs. Donley. 

Mrs. Burns improved very rapidly, and before the 
week was ended she was able to sit in her chair. One 
evening Dolly was bustling about getting supper, for 
Tommy had come in from his work and he was wait- 
ing. The room was very tidy and cheerful, and Mrs. 
Burns sat looking about her. All at once she broke 
out and said, “ Dolly, bide with us ! ” Ho one an- 


“Dolly, Bide With Us.” 


259 


swered, and she repeated, “ I do say that you ought to 
bide with us. It is but fair, Dolly.” 

Tommy shook his head at his mother, but, nothing 
daunted, she said, “ You needna shake your head. If 
you willna speak out I will.” 

Tommy was much embarrassed, and Dolly, who was 
naturally fond of fun, turned her back and shook with 
laughter. The laugh was contagious, and all joined 
in it. But when the mother grew weary and lay 
down again there was no talking nor laughing, and 
Dolly worked nervously at her knitting. 

Finally Tommy said, “ Dolly, do you think my 
mither daft that she thinks you should come and bide 
with us ? ” 

Dolly colored and said nothing. Tommy was en- 
couraged, and he said, “ Say, Dolly, will you think 
kindly o’ what I asked you long ago ? I hae never 
loved any woman but yoursel’, neither can I. Mither 
will soon be gone, and then I maun break up my liame 
unless you w T ill think well o’ what I said.” 

He said no more, but his eyes were pleading for an 
answer. It came at length : 

“ Tommy, I do think well of it.” 

Tommy was a happy man, and his mother was 
highly pleased. Dolly herself was satisfied, and the 
minister’s wife said to her husband, “ Alexander Bar- 
clay, I told you so.” 


260 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

IN CRAIK COTTAGE. 

Widow Craik lias been already mentioned, and it is 
under her poor roof that we must now take the reader. 
Night was now coming on, a night late in autumn. 
All through the day the first earlyv snow had whirled 
through the air, and although it melted as fast as it 
fell there was a cheerless outlook. Nor was it much 
more cheerful within the widow’s cottage. One re- 
deeming feature the room had, it was as clean as hands 
could make it. Two little girls were seated on low 
stools before the poor fire, but the mother could not 
keep her seat. She often rose and looked out of the 
door. It was nearly dark, and she bent her gaze in 
the direction of the pasture-lands, whither John, her 
eldest child, had gone to bring home the cow. He 
had been gone for some time, and the table stood 
ready for supper, if indeed there was much readiness 
in a plate of dry oat-cakes. But each child was to have 
a cup of milk when John should bring home “ wee 
Mooly ” and the mother should milk her. 

“Mither, isna John cornin’?” asked one of the 
children. 

“Na, Alice, he isna. It is the last day that .Mooly 
was to stay upon the hills, and now I wish I hadna 
left her there the day. But, as I thought, every day 
is ane, and the hay costs a deal, and we hae na money 
to spare.” 


In Ckaik Cottage. 


2G1 


Just then John opened the door, saying, “ I havena 
found Mooly, mither.” 

“ You havena found Mooly ! Where can the poor 
beastie be ? ” 

“ I dinna ken. I have been in every nook o’ the 
pasture, and she isna there. It may be that she lias 
broken through the fence and gone to some other 
body’s byre with their cattle.” 

“ That may be sae, but why wouldna she go to her 
ain byre ? ” 

“ I dinna ken ; but gie me a bit o’ supper and I’ll 
go to see Tommy Burns. I’ll get the loan o’ his lan- 
tern and go to look for her. But my feet are very 
wet now, mither. I wish I had shoes that didna 
leak.” 

The mother sighed heavily, but she did not speak. 
She had one cup of milk left over from the last meal ; 
this she gave to John with a good share of the cakes. 
He ate hurriedly, then started out. He was a large, 
strong boy for twelve years, and very courageous. The 
widow often thought of this, and she looked more 
hopefully into the future that seemed so dark. She 
found herself leaning upon him, young as he was. 

“Are we to have na supper?” asked Effie, the 
youngest girl. 

“Whist!” whispered Alice; “canna you see that 
mither is sore troubled now ? ” 

“ Yes, lassie,” replied the mother, “you maun hae 
your supper. I hae a bit of butter left, and you 
shall hae it upon your cakes. The Lord will provide.” 

The last sentence was said more for her own com- 
fort than for her children’s ears. But they heard it, 
and believed it as well. 


2G2 


Ebb and Flow. 


“Hae you no tea for yourself, mither?” asked 
Alice. 

“No, dear, I maun do awa’ with that expense, 
though it is a wee ane. I will fare as my bairns do.” 

Alice looked disappointed, but she said no more, 
and they finished their simple meal in silence. When 
the table had been cleared the widow said, “ I hope 
the poor beast liasna got into the mire in the next lot.” 

“ It isna likely,” said the thoughtful Alice, as she 
knitted steadily. 

A little later they heard the tramp of feet and the 
lowing of a cow. Widow Craik opened the door, and 
there was Tommy Burns with his lantern, and John 
following, driving Mooly. 

“ She was in Farmer McCabe’s barn-yard all safe 
and sound,” said John, cheerily. 

“I am right glad to see her,” said his mother. 
“Good-evening to you, Neebor Burns. Willna you 
come in and warm yoursel’ ? ” 

“No, thanks to you. You and the bairns are weel, 
I hope.” 

“ Ay, we are weel, thank God ! ” 

Tommy told John to hold the lantern, and he 
milked the cow. As he turned ,to go she said, 
“ Thank you for the help you hae gi’en John.” 

“You are mair than welcome. • John is a good, 
kind lad, and I like to do him a good turn.” 

John now came to the house, having finished his 
work. His teeth chattered so that his mother was 
frightened. “ O, my laddie, you are chilled through ! ” 
she cried. 

“ It is my feet, mither. I would have done weel 
enough if my feet had kept dry.” 


In Craik Cottage. 


263 


Another sigh followed that said, “I know it, John, 
but how can I help it?” The lad sat down by the 
fire, stripped his feet, and stretched them out on the 
warm hearth. 

“Warm and dry them, laddie, and I will gie you 
some nice dry stockings,” said his mother, as she gave 
him a cup of milk. 

John looked up in surprise. “I had my cup o’ 
milk wi’ my supper.” 

“ Never mind ; take this too. I hae no fears that 
you will get too muckle.” 

The mother then gave the little girls their share of 
milk. Effie drank hers, but Alice set the cup down, 
saving, “ I’ll wait a wee and see if mither takes ony 
for hersel’ ” 

Mrs. Craik saw the milk untouched, and she said, 
“ Why, Alice, why ha vena you taken your milk ? ” 

“ Because you had nane yoursel’, mither.” 

“ O, my bairn, dinna watch me sac closely.” 

“ I canna help it ; you wark harder than I do, and 
surely you need as muckle as I.” 

“ But you are a growing lass, and you need some- 
thing to gie you strength.” 

“ And you need something to keep soul and body 
together, though you grow na mair.” 

This old-fashioned speech beguiled the mother into 
a broad smile, and she said, “You have sustained 
your argument so weel that I maun gie in.” 

John was sitting quietly by the fire, and his 
mother went to him and said, “ You surely maun be 
warm now, John.” 

“ I ought to be warm, but my ! the shivers dinna 
stop. They play right lively up and down my back,” 


264 Ebb and Flow. 

he answered, trying to make light of his bad feel- 
ings. 

u Then you maun hae something to warm you,” she 
said, hanging the kettle over the tire preparatory to 
making a hot drink. Somehow his posture before 
the tire reminded her of another John Craik and an- 
other winter evening five years ago, when her husband 
came home from his daily labor chilly and sick. And 
her thoughts ran on over days, weeks, even months 
of slow decline. Then came the last sad scenes, the 
death-bed, the funeral, and the grave. 

She rose and prepared a remedy for colds, and 
John took it and went to bed. Little Etfie also lay 
fast asleep on her pillow. Only Alice sat by her 
mother’s side as she again took up the sad train of 
thought, and the years of her widowhood passed 
before her in quick succession, the three first being 
darker than the others on account of her loneliness and 
the entire dependence of her children upon her efforts. 
Even then John had stayed with his sisters through 
the long summer days while his mother earned in the 
harvest-field the meal that fed them through the win- 
ter. But for the last two seasons Effie and Alice had 
remained alone in the cot, and “ wee Jock,” as the 
other laborers called him, had added his “ penny fee ” 
to his mother’s wages. No wonder that she felt al- 
most sick with apprehension at the bare possibility of 
losing her brave-hearted boy. 

Many talk of loneliness and trouble who have not 
yet known either. They are lonely because they have 
no novelty, no amusement. What do they know of 
the loneliness at night in a home of poverty, where the 
stillness is not broken by so much as the ticking of a 


In Craik Cottage. 


265 


clock ; where there are only helpless little ones for 
company, and they sleep that heavy sleep that will 
not be wakened, however much depends upon them ; 
where even the noises of the little mice as they make 
their nightly depredations are welcome sounds because 
they are sounds of life ? Or what do they who mourn 
over fancied wants and troubles know of the care 
that comes to the burdened ones of earth ? Had they 
caught a glimpse of Widow Craik plying her needle 
far into the winter night by the flickering light of one 
small candle, or seen her as she wearily knitted by the 
firelight, shaping stockings for her more fortunate 
neighbors, they would blush for shame at their un- 
reasonable complaints. Surely, Widow Craik and 
such as she know what is the ebb-tide of life ! Shall 
another sorrow fall to her lot ? 

When morning came J ohn was quite ill. His mother 
bade him stay within doors, and she herself attended 
to the work outside. When she came in John said, 
“ Mither, I canna sit up. I maun go back to bed.” 

“ If the doctor would but drive by the day ! ” said 
the mother, as the hours went by and her son was no 
better. 

It was just past noon when Alice looked up and 
said, “ Here comes Mistress Burns.” 

A moment later Dolly entered. As soon as she 
knew that John was ill she said, “ The doctor is at 
McCabe’s now. I will go up and send him down if 
you say so.” 

“ I would be very thankful if you would. I would 
send Alice, but her shoes leak, poor lass ! John took 
his cold because his shoes were poor, and hers are 
even w r orse than his.” 


266 


Ebb and Plow. 


Dr. Blair was a warm-hearted man, and his purse 
was always open. Dolly knew this, and she had her 
own plans. “I’ll be sure and tell the doctor that the 
lad took cold because he had poor shoes, and that his 
sister’s are even worse than his,” she said to herself. 
Dolly saw the doctor, and she omitted nothing that she 
intended to say. He came to see “ wee Jock,” as he 
had learned to call him, told him a funny story, 
pinched his ear, and then left him some medicine, as 
if that was of the least importance of all. However, 
he said, “ I will come again to-morrow and see your 
laddie. I dare say he will need another story by that 
time.” 

His manner re-assured the widow, and she set about 
her duties with a lighter heart. One thing still 
troubled her — she could not see a way to buy shoes 
for her children. She did not worry about the doc- 
tor’s visits, for he never took any pay from the very 
poor. 

The next day Dr. Blair brought in a suspicious-look- 
ing bundle. He laid it aside and examined his patient, 
and gave the mother some directions concerning the 
medicines. Then he untied the package and took 
out three pairs of shoes. The largest and stoutest 
pair he set down by the sick boy’s bed and said, 
“See here, Jock, if you ever start into the winter 
with no good shoes, and fail to tell me about it, I’ll 
tweak both your ears longer than a mule’s.” He then 
gave the other shoes to the little girls. All three 
children thanked him as he turned to go, and he said, 
“ You are welcome, bairns.” Then he added in an 
aside to the mother, “ The lad will do well enough 
now.” 


In Craik Cottage. 


267 


Widow Craik both laughed and cried after the 
doctor was -gone, and that day she sang again and 
again : 

“Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take: 

The clouds ye so much dread 
Are big with mercy, and shall break 
In blessings on your head.” 


2(38 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XL.II. 

THE BAIRNS BRING- HER ROUND. 

Nothing more happened to disturb the peace of 
Mr. Robert Raeburn’s home, though something did 
happen to produce a change. Edith Raeburn, who 
was nearing her forty-fifth birthday, was very unex- 
pectedly confronted with an offer of marriage. 
William Mansfield, her former suitor, after an ab- 
sence of twenty years, had come back a widower, 
and he renewed his proposals. 

“ I have three children, and they need a mother, 
saying nothing of my own loneliness and the need of 
a mistress in a home that has for three years been left 
to servants.” 

“ Are your children so small ? ” questioned Edith. 

“ The oldest is but twelve. I buried my two old- 
est children.” 

“ It would be a great undertaking, William.” 

“ It would be a great blessing to us, Edith.” 

“But it is so unexpected. You must not expect 
my answer at once.” 

“I shall be obliged to return to-morrow. Shall I 
know then ?” 

“ Not so soon. I must consult my father and my 
niece. You see that this is but natural and right.” 

“ Suppose they do not approve ; shall you not do as 
you think best ? ” 

“ I am not certain how I shall think. I may not 


The Bairns Bring Her Round. 269 

approve. You must leave the matter some little 
time unless I answer in the negative. I promise to 
do what seems right.” 

So Mr. Mansfield was obliged to go back to his 
home not knowing whether or not Edith Raeburn 
would refuse him a second time. Although she was 
no longer young, hitherto she had been perfectly 
content at the prospect of living and dying un wedded. 
She was an honored inmate of her father’s house, and 
she had no desire to change her state. Without any 
hurry she laid the matter before her relatives, more 
than half hoping that they would disapprove. Nat- 
urally they did not want her to leave them, but they 
did not wish to stand in the way of her happiness. 
Sometimes Edith would indulge in a few tender 
thoughts about her lover, but they were short-lived, 
and she about resolved to give him a negative answer. 

But Mr. Mansfield made a lucky hit. The next 
time he came to Perth he brought with him two 
sweet little girls, Annie and Edith. Whether he 
knew her fondness for children or whether he thought 
them so winning as to help him in his suit we do not 
know, but from the moment Edith saw the children 
she was won over. Mr. Mansfield left them in her 
care over night, while he pretended to have business 
in the next town that would require his attention dur- 
ing part of the next day. 

Edith Raeburn did not send a servant to put the 
children to bed. She had a cot brought into her 
own room, and she helped them undress and heard 
them repeat their evening prayers. 

“We haven’t had any one to hear us say our 
prayers since mamma died,” said Annie. 


270 


Ebb and Flow. 


“I don’t ’member mamma,” said little Edith. 4 * I 
wish I did, ’cause now I shall never know how it 
seems to have one.” 

She was just ready to get into bed, and Miss Rae- 
burn lifted her, and for a moment pressed her to her 
heart and then laid her beside her sister. She then 
sat down by the window and looked out into the fast- 
gathering darkness. Old memories were stirred, and 
the past came up before her. 44 The little one’s name 
is Edith, too,” she thought, and then she sighed, for 
she knew that her heart was touched. 

Annie, who was not yet asleep, heard the sigh, and 
thinking that Miss Raeburn was weary of sitting by 
her, she said, 44 You need not stay with us; we are 
not afraid.” 

“No, there is nothing to be afraid of ; but I do not 
mind sitting here, dearie.” 

Nothing more was said, and the little girl went to 
sleep. Miss Raeburn sat wrapped in her own thoughts, 
and tender ones they were. 

Down-stairs there were some remarks made. 

“ She will give in, Rose. The bairns will bring her 
around, I fear.” 

44 Do you think so, grandfather ? ” asked Rose. 

“Ay, Edith was always fond of bairns. It is 
almost a wonder that you escaped with your life, for 
such hugging and kissing and dandling as you got 
from Edith when you were a wee lassie ! I think 
your mother was afraid for your safety. ‘Mercy, 
Edith ! ’ she would say , 4 don’t break my bairn’s back ! ’ 
or, 4 Edith, you will smother my bairn with kisses.’ 
I believe that Mansfield, the sly fox, remembers that 
very time. Plow old are you ? ” 


The Bairns Bring Her Round. 271 

“ Twenty-two.” 

“ Ay, that makes it. It is about a score of years 
since she refused him. lie must remember how fond 
she was of you.” 

“ I wonder why she refused him. He must have 
looked better than he does now.” 

“ 0, Edith was aye a bit notional. I suppose she 
thought she did not love him, or she did not want to 
give up her freedom. But now that there is need 
for some one to devote herself to the care of these 
bonnie bairns she will forget herself and think only 
of working for others. Ho doubt she has already 
thought how bad training will harm these little ones, 
and for their sakes, if for no other reason, determined 
to become Mrs. Mansfield.” 

Rose looked very grave as she gazed into the future 
and thought how lonely it would be without her 
aunt Edith. 

Meantime her aunt Edith was looking around 
upon the dear familiar objects that were just discern- 
ible in the dusk. 

“Yes, I will leave them all, and leave the dear old 
home. Rose will be to father all that I have been. 
I know how it will be. Rose and Mark will marry. 
They love each other now, though they do not know it. 
Something must happen to show Rose her own heart, 
and my going may do it, for she wfill be very lonely 
without me, I know. These dear children must have 
a mother, and William — well, he always was a good 
husband to her he married, and I can love him if I 
will.” She lighted a lamp and stood looking at the 
sleeping children. “ They are bonnie, and I believe 
they are good,” she said. “ Wee Edith is the bonnier, 


272 


Ebb and Flow. 


and she was named for me, perhaps. I would like 
to kiss the little lass, but I fear I would waken her.” 

She went down-stairs and joined her father and 
niece in the sitting-room. She seemed restless and 
uneasy, and her father determined to help her out of 
her embarrassment. 

“ Well, Edith, I suppose I must soon give you over 
to Mansfield,” he said. 

“ Would it be so very hard, father?” 

“ Hard enough, daughter, but I must not bind you 
here. Do as you think best. Going or staying you 
have my blessing, for you have aye been a good 
daughter to me.” 

By this time Rose had her handkerchief to her 
eyes, and Edith said, “You cannot say what father 
has said, can you, Rose ? ” 

“ Yes, I will try to tell you to go if you think 
best ; but don’t ask me to say that I shall not grieve 
for you.” 

The next day, when Mr. Mansfield returned, he 
found Edith sitting upon Miss Raeburn’s lap. He 
saw at a glance that he had been gaining ground dur- 
ing his absence, and he said, “ Have you become so 
fond of Miss Raeburn, Edith ? ” 

“Yes, I have; and so has Annie, only she says she 
is too big to sit on Miss Raeburn’s lap.” 

“ How would you like to have her come to live 
with us ? ” 

The little one looked up in Edith’s face and asked 
quickly, “Will you come ? ” 

Miss Raeburn colored as she looked into the plead- 
ing eyes, and she answered, “ Perhaps so.” 

Mr. Mansfield rather enjoyed her embarrassment, 


The Bairns Bring Her Round. 


273 


and he said, u Don’t take a half promise, my wee 
lassie.” 

Little Edith put her arms around Miss Raeburn’s 
neck, and said, “ Say you will come.” 

“ You will come,” repeated Miss Raeburn. 

“ Ho ; say you will come,” persisted the child. 

“ You will come,” repeated the other. 

The child thought a moment ; then she said, “ Say, 
./will come.” 

Mr. Mansfield laughed heartily, for he felt sure of 
a good answer. But the answer was slow in coming, 
and he spoke : 

“The bairn should surely get the answer she ex- 
pects.” 

Edith Raeburn took the child's face between her 
hands, kissed it, and said, “ Little Edith, I will come.” 

The rest is easily told : a speedy marriage, a new 
home, and new responsibilities for Miss Edith Raeburn. 

18 


274 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

“ BLESS YOU, MY CHILDREN ! ” 

When Rose was left mistress of the house she 
found lierself busier than before, but she still had 
time to grieve over her good aunt’s absence. Her 
grandfather bore the change better than Rose did, for, 
true to his resolve, he was trying to throw off all 
worldly cares and desires and to live wholly for his 
Master. 

“ You see,” he said one day to Rose, “I have been 
but an unprofitable servant all my life, and I must 
work while the day lasts ; while the day lasts,” he re- 
peated. “ It will not last long, Rose.” 

He began to be much absorbed in spiritual things, 
and knowing that “ faith without works is dead ” he 
performed many a deed of charity ; and many an act 
of sympathy and Christian love was due to the once 
worldly-minded professor of religion. He was a con- 
stant attendant on service, and Rose almost always 
accompanied him. This earnestness in the cause of 
Christ, together with his increasing feebleness, made 
her fear that he would not long be with her, and she 
was often very sad. 

One Sabbath afternoon Rose sat in the library try- 
ing to interest herself in a book. Mark was in an 
adjoining room, reading to his uncle, and Rose could 
hear the sound of his voice as it rose and fell. Out- 
side the rain was falling, and it splashed against the 


u Bless You, My Children!” 


275 


window-panes. Bose let the book drop into her lap, 
and she sat idly watching the rain as it fell. 

“ It is gloomy without and gloomy within,” she 
said, half aloud. “ I am lonely. 1 miss Aunt 
Edith.” And the tears, as if vieing with the rain- 
drops, chased one another down her cheek. She was 
absorbed in her own sad thoughts, and she forgot 
every thing else till Mark, coming to change a book, 
opened the door and stood before her. 

He was surprised to find her in tears and he said, 
u Why, Bose, what troubles you ? ” 

She did not answer at once, and he said, Ck Hever 
mind, I will go right back. I am sorry I came in 
just now.” 

“ Don’t hurry on my account. I ought not to have 
given up to my feelings.” 

Mark sat down beside her and said, “ I cannot bear 
to see you so unhappy. I have always desired your 
happiness above every thing else, my sweet cousin. 
Please put away that look.” 

She smiled at his earnestness, and he took her hand, 
saying, “ Bose, if you are in trouble I am very sorry.” 

“ I have no trouble, Mark. I am sad without know- 
ing why. Perhaps it is all loneliness, for I miss Aunt 
Edith so much.” 

“ Bose, I would gladly make up her loss to you if 
you would let me.” As Mark said this he carried 
her hand to his lips. Bose did not draw it away, and 
he continued : “ I have loved you from the very first, 
but I tried to conquer my feelings, for I feared that 
you could not return my affection. When I found 
you in tears I could not keep from speaking out, and 
if you could love me just a little I would be so happy ! ” 


276 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ Dear Mark, perhaps I love you more than you 
think, more than I know myself. Your presence 
seems very desirable. Is that too much for me to 
confess?” she asked. 

“No, dear. Say that you will be mine, and my 
happiness will be complete.” 

Rose was silent, and Mark continued, “ I know that 
I am not worthy of you — ” 

“ O, it is not that. You are worthy of any one, 
Mark ; but I hesitate to accept your offer after I have 
loved one who is so debased. I feel that I am the 
unworthy one.” 

“ Don’t think of that again. We have known each 
other so long that there is no reason for deferring the 
settlement of what so much concerns our happiness. 
Tell me that you will be my wife.” 

“ Yes, Mark, I will.” 

“ Blessed words ! ” said Mark, as he stooped to im- 
print a kiss upon her fair cheek. “ I will try to make 
yon happy.” 

Mr. Raeburn came in pursuit of Mark and the book, 
and, seeing how matters stood, he said, “ Bless you, 
my children ! ” 

Mark spoke, saying, “ This is the hour of our be- 
trothal. Do we indeed have your blessing ? ” 

“ Ay, surely you have it. I have always felt that 
you were meant for each other.” 

Mr. Raeburn made a wedding for his granddaugh- 
ter, and Mark’s mother came to witness the marriage 
of her eldest and beloved son. The evening before 
the ceremony mother and son found a quiet hour to 
spend together. Her congratulations were not empty 
words, nor were her praises of the bride merely 


277 


“Bless You* My Children!” 

spoken to please her son’s fancy. Her words came 
from lier heart and soul. She dwelt upon the bless- 
edness and sanctity of the marriage relation, of the 
worth of a true and loving wife, and she ended by 
saying, “You have proved yourself worthy of this 
great joy that has come to you.” 

Mark stooped and kissed his mother’s furrowed 
brow, and then he stroked it with his finger-tips as if 
trying to smooth out the lines. 

“ They are fixed there, Mark,” she said. “ You must 
not worry about them. I am not sorry that they point 
to the life beyond, where all is joy, where there are no 
changes, only from blessedness to greater blessedness 
as we have the capacity to enjoy those heights of 
happiness of which our finite hearts cannot conceive.” 

Edith Mansfield also came to the wedding. She 
was delighted that events had turned out -as she hoped 
they would. As she congratulated the happy couple 
she said, “ This is just what I have been hoping for 
these years.” 

Mrs. Raeburn remained in Perth for more than a 
month, and all thought the visit very delightful. 
Rose drew toward her naturally and easily. In truth, 
they were much alike, for both had loving, tender dis- 
positions, earnest piety, and humble trust. Rose had 
never known a mother’s love, and yet few mothers 
bestow more care upon their children than Editli 
Raeburn gave the little motherless child. Still, when 
Rose came to know Mark’s mother she saw that 
mother-love had qualities peculiar to itself, that it was 
something to rest in. She found it hard to part with 
her, and it was only because they felt that others had 
a prior claim that they were willing to release her. 


278 


Ebb and Flow. 


The last day came, yes, the last half-day. Mark 
left the store in other hands, and, with his wife, his 
mother, and his uncle, spent the afternoon riding 
leisurely along in an open carriage. Mark held the 
reins, and Rose sat beside him, while Mr. Raeburn 
and his niece occupied the back seat. Widow and 
widower they had long been, and now one was through 
age and feebleness nearing the confines of the world 
to come, while the other seemed likely to live to en- 
joy many years more. 

“I tell you, Jessie,” said the old man, “ it is a long 
road that I have traveled, but I am almost at the end 
now. I have made crooked paths. I have often been 
in the enemy’s country and been taken captive at his 
will. I have loitered by the way, but I am awakened 
at last. Thank God for the promptings of the Holy 
Spirit, and thank him, too, for a faithful Christian 
friend ! ” 

As he paused all knew of whom he spoke, and he 
soon continued: “ You were blessed, Jessie, that you 
ever had the Rev. James Robinson for your pastor, 
and you were especially blessed that you had him at 
the time of your sore bereavement. If ever a man 
was endowed with the right word in the right place 
it was this friend of ours. Well, he has been in glory 
some little time now. I wonder how soon I shall 
meet him there.” 

Mark turned around, saying, “Not very soon, we 
can but hope, for we can ill spare you, grandfather.” 

“ You will get along well enough now, with the 
blessing of God. You and Rose are young and well 
and happy in each other. You can easily spare an old 
man of almost fourscore years.” 


“ Bless You, My Children ! ” 279 

“ Not easily, grandfather,” said Rose. “We want 
your wisdom and counsel, your love and sympathy.” 

“You can have all I give, and more too, directly 
from the Master himself.” 

“ But, grandfather, we cannot always realize this.” 

“You mean, Rose, that you do not realize this. 
Don’t say you cannot. The Saviour’s presence can aye 
be had for the asking. Does he not say, ‘ Behold, I 
stand at the door, and knock : if any man hear my 
voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and 
will sup with him, and he with me ? ’ What more can 
we ask to assure us that the Saviour is willing and 
ready to be our friend ? ” 

“That is so, my children,” said Jessie Raeburn. 
“ Christ is a ready helper and a sympathizing friend. 
If I had not found that out my life would have been 
a deal sadder than it has been. I can truly say that 
Christ has been more to me than all earthly friends, 
and I recommend him to you. Let your hearts be 
bound to him in the closest union, and you can never 
be really unhappy.” 

All that summer afternoon the friends enjoyed one 
another’s society as they rode about to show Mrs. 
Raeburn the country. Sometimes they spoke of God 
in his works, and sometimes of his grace and mercy. 
Sometimes they talked of friends and scenes far back 
in the past, but still dear and familiar to memory. 
Mr. Raeburn spoke of a wedding morning, the morn- 
ing when his favorite nephew, Evan Raeburn, mar- 
ried Jessie Laidlaw. Turning to her, he said, “ You 
were a likely-looking couple, you and Evan. How 
long ago was that ? ” 

“ Thirty-three years.” 


280 


Ebb and Flow. 


His voice lowered as he asked, “ And how long has 
he been gone ? ” 

“Twenty years next autumn.” 

“So long? Well, time flies apace. It soon whirls 
us away. Even the longest life soon closes. Truly 
our days are but a hand-breadth. Changes from sor- 
row to joy and from joy to sorrow make up our life 
here ; and yet both pass quickly.” 

“ Ay, you are right,” assented Mrs. Raeburn. 
“ Days of sorrow, that seem interminable while we are 
passing through them, fly away. They were swift- 
footed like the rest, we find, when we look back upon 
them.” 

Every heart felt sad when, as the sun grew low, 
Mark reined in the horses before their home, and Mr. 
Raeburn spoke : 

“Never again shall we sit side by side, Jessie, and 
enjoy another ride. The morrow morn takes you 
away, and I doubt if we meet again till that other 
morn when the ‘dead, small and great, shall stand 
before God.’ May our names then be found ‘ written 
in the book of life ! ’ ” 


“One that was Born Blind/ 


281 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

“ONE THAT WAS BORN BLIND.” 

“ Have you seen the minister’s wee lass ? ” was a 
question that his parishioners asked one another, for 
it was called a very beautiful infant. “The bonnie 
wee thing ! ” was an exclamation often heard by the 
pleased and happy mother ;• and she confided her 
own opinion to her husband, saying, “I do think, 
Alexander, that this little one is by far our bonniest 
bairn.” 

The child was but two months old when it was dis- 
covered that the light of a lamp did not affect its 
eyes. Trembling with fear, the mother tested the 
bright blue eyes by passing a light very closely before 
them, but they remained fixed. With a despairing 
groan she said, “ Alexander, our bairn is blind ! ” 

Great was the agitation of the father ; he buried his 
face in his hands that he might hide his grief. Tears 
and sighs mingled freely in that sad, trying hour. 
The time for evening prayer came, but he had no 
words; his utterance was choked. Silently they 
prayed that God would help them bear their sorrow, 
and they arose a little comforted. 

When it became known that the infant was blind, 
the afflicted family had many sympathizers, and many 
a present found its way to the manse, because that 
was the only way the people knew to show their sym- 
pathetic regard. And many mothers thanked God 


2S2 


Ebb and Flow. 


as the} 7 looked in the faces of their own children and 
saw that they reciprocated a smile. 

“ Ane thing is sure,” said Widow Burns, as she 
tenderly held Dolly’s little one, “ the minister’s bairn 
will never know what it has missed.” 

“ There is very little comfort in that, mither,” re- 
plied Tommy. “ If ane has once seen you can de- 
scribe things to him, but if he has never seen you 
canna tell him that a thing is bright as sunlight, blue 
as the sky, or green as the grass in the meadow-lands ; 
neither can he know what a flower or a tree is like. 
So if the bairn willna ken what she has missed 
neither will she hae an idea of the world. It is 
a sad, sad thing,” said Tommy, shaking his head 
gravely. 

“ Ay,” answered Dolly, “ the saddest I hae heard 
in mony a day.” 

She felt a particular interest in her minister’s fam- 
ily, for they had shown her no little kindness while 
she was in their service, and their welfare and happi- 
ness were very near to her heart. 

The other Barclay children were quite large. 
Thomas was two years older than Ellen, and she was 
six years older than the little blind baby. They 
were good children, as well as bright and healthy, 
and the parents soon ceased to sorrow too deeply over 
the blighted prospects of their infant. They knew 
that God had ordered even this dispensation, and 
therefore it must be for the best, however dark and 
mysterious it might seem to them. 

In speaking of this trial one evening, Mr. Barclay 
said to his wife, “ You know, my dear, that God has 
always used means to test the faith of his children, 


“One that was Born Blind.” 283 

means that seem severe to them unless they have per- 
fect confidence in his wisdom and goodness. AVe 
must feel that God is love, and that his loving care is 
constantly over us. I think the difficulty with us all 
is this : we forget that God’s care is constant, or else 
we fail to have a realizing sense of it ; and unknown 
to ourselves, perhaps, we feel that events are left to 
themselves and are simply happening by blind chance. 
Like those of old, we constantly seek after some sign, 
some fuller assurance than is contained in God’s word. 
This is all wrong. We should believe, though the 
heavens above should seem as brass, and the earth be- 
neath a pathway of thorns. But, my dear wife, who 
is sufficient for these things? O, how we need to 
pray that our faith fail not ! ” 

“ Ay, Alexander, 1 understand what you mean. It 
is no new thing for me to experience a great fear, a 
great faintness of heart and sickness of soul, even 
though I do believe the promises. Then, as you say, 
there is not the realizing sense, the abiding sense that 
we should have. God forgive us our weakness, for 
even this is a sin against him, since his strength is 
waiting for us and can be had at all times for the 
asking.” 

Just then the baby wakened, and the other children 
came round the cradle anxious to have a look at their 
little sister. 

“ Dear little lassie,” said the mother, as she went to 
take her up, “ we can love you just as well as if you 
were not shut up in darkness.” 

“ We will love her all the more,” replied the father. 
“ These children will be eyes to her. Will you not, 
my bairns?” 


284 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ Ay, father, we will gladly lead her,” said Thomas 
and Ellen. 

The manse, notwithstanding this cloud over it, was 
a happy home, and it presented a pleasant picture at 
the time of which we write. The evening meal had 
been eaten, and it w T as the hour that the father spent 
with his children. Part of the time they hung 
around his neck or stood leaning against his shoulders. 
Sometimes they perched one on either knee, unless he 
held little Gertrude in his arms, when they were con- 
tent to hover near. The mother, too, dropped her 
work and made one of the group. The last rays of 
the sun streamed in the low western window and 
lent a brightness to the sweet domestic scene. 

The pastor sat thinking a while, then he said: 
“Perhaps we have had too many joys heretofore. 
Who knows but in eternity we shall thank God most 
for what was hardest for us to bear in this life ? Our 
troubles are often blessings in disguise.” 


A Changed Man. 


285 


CHAPTER XLV. 

A CHANGED MAN. 

Ever since tlie fire Duncan McCabe had been a 
different man. He had remembered his promises 
much better than his friends had expected. As we 
said, he was a well-meaning man, his miserly propen- 
sities being his worst fault. Mr. Barclay saw the 
change in him, and he appreciated it. Hot only was 
there a decided change in McCabe’s charities ; he grew 
more religious and even-tempered. He said himself, 
“ The burning of the barn has taught me mail’ than 
one lesson, and they hae come nane too soon.” 

Both statements were true, for Farmer McCabe 
was not only changed, but he was nearing another 
change, that which comes to all living. Only three 
years after the fire he took his bed to rise no more. 

Alfred Gilmore had become greatly attached to his 
father-in-law, and Nelly felt that she had more reason 
to love and reverence him than in all the former 
years of her life, while Mrs. McCabe often said, “ We 
maunna forget to gie God thanks that your father 
has grown in grace in his last years.” 

Alfred and Nelly had a little son, whom the father 
named James Kobinson, after his grandfather, the 
good old minister whose memory was still cherished 
in the parish. This little boy was a great joy to his 
Grandfather McCabe. How often he watched him 
as he crept across the room, climbed up by chairs, or 


286 


Ebb and Flow. 


mauled the good-natured cat that lay on the hearth ! 
Every movement amused the bedridden man. 

“ I say, wife,” be began one day, “ how we do creep 
in the Christian course when we ought to walk! 
How we fa’ when we ought to stand! I can but 
think of it as I watch wee Jamie. Up and down he 
goes. Sometimes he lies prone upon the floor, some- 
times he stands erect by holding on to a chair. Every 
time he tries to stand in Tiis own strength down he 
goes. And so it is wi’ us ; we can stand only when 
we cling to another, even to God liimsel’. How I 
have dishonored him in my day, ever since I 4 named 
his name!’ We a’ are asleep; God save us frae a 
fearfu’ awakening — ane that shall come too late ; ane 
that shall gie us natime to go for oil for our lamps! 
It must be a fearfu’ tiling, this awakening o’ the 
slothfu’. Death mostly comes suddenly, but how 
differently does it come ! To ane it is the door to 
life eternal, to another the gate to eternal death. 
Ay, ay, we should redeem the time.” 

Then, dropping into a soliloquy, he continued : 44 I 
must redeem the time, but my opportunities are 
a’maist past. I can no longer do ony thing, but perhaps 
I can bear something. Do or bear, do and bear. 
Some folk hae the ane, some liae the other, and 
some hae both. May I All out the small remainder 
o’ my days according to the will o’ God.” 

And a small remainder indeed it was ! He suffered 
some bodily pain, but his soul was at rest, having 
reached the peace of faith. He exhorted all who 
came to see him, telling them to work while the day 
lasted, always adding, “For you ken the night o’ 
death cometh.” 


A Changed Man. 


287 


There were those to whom he had been a stum- 
bling-block during the years of his lukewarm service, 
years when he tried to serve both God and mammon. 
Now these very people were convinced that Farmer 
McCabe was really converted to God. They believed 
that his regrets for his past unfaithfulness were sin- 
cere and deep, and when he closed his eyes to earthly 
scenes none doubted that he would open them in a 
better world than this. 

The old man was missed in his home, missed in the 
church, and missed as a business man and fellow- 
townsman. But it was in the first place where he 
was missed most. Long did his family listen for 
the sound of his cane upon the stone steps, long did 
they look for the bowed form to come from the barn, 
the orchard, or the garden, and it was long before 
they realized that he was forever done with earth and 
earthly things and entered into rest. 

One evening after he had been gone three months 
the remaining members of the family were gathered 
around the hearth. Something reminded Alfred of 
the spring work so soon to come on, and he said, “ I 
must do my own planning and calculating this spring, 
for I have not an older and wiser head to consult.” 

“ Ay, that is so,” Mrs. McCabe replied. “ The 
gudemon was aye a rare hand at working and laying 
out work. How it grieved him in his last days that 
he had not gi’en mair earnest heed to the work that 
is to be done in the Master’s vineyard ! I always 
kenned that he was remiss in such duties, and I always 
grieved that it was so. Other faults he had, as we 
weel ken, but we willna speak o’ them ; how glad I am 
that the last years o’ his life are pleasant to remem- 


288 


Ebb and Flow. 


ber ! O, my bairns, I am sae glad and happy that he 
did come to understand God’s claims upon him that 
I canna rejoice enough! We shall meet him now, 
if we are faitlifu’, in a bonnie, bonnie world. It is an 
easy matter to become slothfu’, and to be slotlifu’ is to 
be unfaitlifu’. May the Lord help us baith to do and 
to love to do his bidding ! May we even run the way 
of his commandment, for we canna abide the words, 
the fearfu’ words, that the slothful servant maun 
hear ! ” 

We have said that Nelly was a comely person, and, 
besides, she was possessed of strong common sense. 
She had great confidence in the leading hand of Provi- 
dence, and she was well fitted to help her husband in 
his pressing duties and to comfort her mother in her 
time of loneliness and bereavement. The old home 
was full of her cheerful presence, and she was a bless- 
ing to those outside the family. Such strong, help- 
ful people are worth more than we can rightly esti- 
mate. They are sure to be found just where they are 
needed, and that is every-where. They seldom feel 
weary, never discouraged, and the reason is that they 
look to God for constant supplies of strength and 
courage. They prove the truth of the promise, 
“ They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their 
strength ; they shall mount up with wings as eagles ; 
they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall 
walk, and not faint.” 

This waiting upon the Lord was doubtless the 
secret of Nelly’s strength and helpfulness. With 
such a daughter as she was, a bright little grandson, 
and a good son-in-law, Mrs. McCabe soon learned to 
accept her widowhood without tears or complaints. 


Witiiin a Prison Cell. 


289 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

WITHIN A PRISON CELL. 

In the prison where George Riddell was confined 
there had been many earnest words spoken to the 
prisoners, and he, broken down, destitute of hope 
and comfort, turned to examine the offer of salvation 
— turned wearily and hopelessly at first, but soon with 
more purpose and determination. A Bible was given 
him, and he read it and reviewed the Scripture les- 
sons that he had learned at his mother’s knee. He 
became convinced of his exceeding sinfulness, and 
felt that he was undone. Liberty was gone, health 
was fast going, and there was nothing left to him but 
the weary waiting for the release that death alone 
could bring. There was no hope in this, for beyond 
was eternity, and for that he was wholly unprepared. 
His life often passed before him, and he saw that his 
whole course was wrong. He called himself a fool, 
a knave, or a madman as the different sides of his 
conduct presented themselves. He was not ignorant 
of the Saviour’s mission into the world, and he felt 
his need of him, but he could scarcely believe that 
there was mercy for such as he. Still, it was his only 
hope, and, as we said, he reached after it with more 
earnestness. The possibility that some one was pray- 
ing for him came to him, and it gave him such a 
thrill of pleasure that he believed it to be true. Ere- 
long he was led to hope for forgiveness, and then he 
19 


290 


Ebb and Flow. 


longed to be forgiven by bis fellow-men whom lie bad 
wronged. He sent a message to Mr. Raeburn and 
Mark, saying : 

“ Tbe most unwortliy of Christ’s followers has 
something to say to you, and he hopes that you will 
remember the last part of the thirty-sixth verse of the 
twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew.” 

The surprise felt by Mark and his uncle may be 
imagined. They went to see Riddell without delay, 
and found him penitent, asking for forgiveness and 
trusting in the forgiveness of God through the media- 
tion of his Son. They hardly knew him at first, and 
it was evident that he had not long to live. He asked 
after Rose, and he was told that she was Mark’s wife. 
He dashed a tear from his eye, and when he could 
control his voice he said : 

“ I am glad. God bless you both ! I will not ask 
to see her, but tell her that I humbly and earnestly 
beg that she will forgive me for all the sorrow 1 have 
caused her. I shall not be here long, and I hope that 
in another world I shall be safe, safe with a long-suf- 
fering and compassionate Saviour.” 

Both of his visitors turned away and put their 
handkerchiefs to their eyes. 

“ Don’t shed any tears for me,” Riddell said ; “ and 
yet by them I know that you truly forgive me.” 

“We forgive as we expect to be forgiven,” came 
from both men. 

“ O, how envy curses its possessor ! ’ 4 said the 
prisoner. “ But for that I should not be here ; but 
for that — ” 

He stopped suddenly, and the others knew what he 
had left unsaid. After a little he continued : 


Within a Pkison Cell. 


291 


44 Did you know, Mark, why I tried to injure your 
reputation, and when foiled in that tried to kill you ? ” 
44 No, I did not, though there were those who did. 
I could not see why a poor young man with no friends 
but his own relatives could be the envy of any one.” 

44 Ay, his own relatives ! That was just the rub ! 
I knew that you would sustain yourself in your un- 
cle’s estimation, and I was not sure that I could do 
this. Then I wanted to help myself to money occa- 
sionally, and it seemed that you were all eyes, or, at 
least, that your eyes were always on me. But, more 
than this, I knew that Rose was very fond of her new 
cousin, and I wanted to get you out of the way. You 
know when a man once opens his heart to the devil 
he makes an easy conquest. Envy, jealousy, and 
hatred are passions not to be let loose ; there is mur- 
der in their train. When once under way they bear 
down all opposition. If one does an evil deed at their 
bidding that deed soon calls for another ; it is like 
trying to stop water running down hill. Besides, 
there is no disposition to stop. Well does the Bible 
teach us that 4 whoso hateth his brother is a mur- 
derer.’ ” 

u And yet you feel that you are saved ? ” asked Mr. 
Raeburn. 

44 Y es, 4 saved, yet so as by fire.’ O, the depth of 
God’s mercy, that he even forgave me, that he ever 
heard prayer in iny behalf ! ” 

44 You have been prayed for, probably, before you 
prayed for yourself.” 

44 Do you know that, Mr. Raeburn ? ” 

44 Ay, or I would not tell you so.” 

The prisoner’s face quivered, but he asked no more 


292 


Ebb and Flow. 


questions. Mark, too, seemed affected, and lie liid his 
face with his hands. 

Mr. Raeburn spoke : “ It is a world of trouble — 
a strange, strange world ; guilt and innocence walk 
side by side, joys and sorrows chase each other in 
quick succession. The moment that brings life 
brings death also ; what should we do here without 
that Power that rules and overrules, often bringing 
good out of seeming evil, often 4 making the wrath 
of man to praise him ? ’ ” 

u Good out of seeming evil,” repeated George 
Riddell. “ I think if I had not been sent to this place 
I should never have been saved. A man who is 
prospered in his wicked course rarely seeks any other 
satisfaction. He lives as he lists and dies as he 
lived. 6 There are no bands in his death.’ His first 
awakening is a terrible one ; with the knowledge of 
his situation comes the knowledge that he is damned, 
eternally damned.” 

The visit, though full of interest, had been pro- 
longed as much as was desirable ; and Mr. Raeburn 
and Mark took leave of the prisoner. 

It is needless to say that Rose was greatly affected 
by this news of George Riddell, although her hus- 
band softened some of the hardest features of the 
case. When she was informed that the prisoner was 
not likely to live long she could but feel rejoiced 
that he had hope beyond his prison-life, and she 
said, “ I shall feel glad when I know that his troubles 
are over.” 

Mark often thought of the poor, unhappy man, and 
this led him to repeat his visit to the prison. He 
found Riddell calmer, because he now had no confes- 


Within a Prison Cell. 


293 


sion to make, but he longed for one look at the out- 
side world, for one day of freedom. 

“ O, Mark,” he said, “ how hungry I am for one 
look at the sky, the hills, the brooks, and the green 
fields ! . If I could have one summer day upon my 
native heath I would die content.” 

“ I am sorry,” Mark replied. “ But remember that 
in heaven, where you hope to go, you will have little 
cause to regret any privation or sorrow you have un- 
dergone in this life.” 

“ You are right, Mark, and yet a glimpse of nat- 
ure would cheer the waiting-time. You know noth- 
ing of what I have suffered through sin, shame, and 
disappointment, to say nothing of prison-life. If I 
could go out with you a free man, forgetting much 
of my shameful past, to die among friends, what a 
happy change it would be ! ” 

Mark looked at his great, sad eyes so full of longing, 
and he said, gently, “ Do you think your time is so 
short?” 

“ O, yes ; I know it is. I shall not live many days 
more. Come and see me again, Mark.” 

“ I will, if my coming is any comfort to you. I 
wish I could comfort you now.” 

“ You can pray with me, Mark, and you can as- 
sure me of your entire forgiveness. Sometimes when 
I lie awake at night, when the darkness is deep, a 
dreadful loneliness and weakness possess me, the devil 
tells me that you do not forgive, that God does not 
forgive, and that I am unsaved. The only way I can 
meet him is to clasp my Bible to my heart and 
remember that in it are recorded these words : 
4 1 have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgres- 


294 


Ebb and Flow. 


sions, and, as a cloud, thy sins : return unto me ; for 
I have redeemed tliee.’ ‘ I, even I, am he that blot- 
tetli out thy transgressions for mine own sake, and 
will not remember thy sins.’ ” 

Mark replied, “ The book of Isaiah is full of comfort 
and strong consolation, for the promises are many and 
well suited to our needs. Let us read the fifty-fifth 
chapter together ; afterward we will have prayer.” 

So Mark read, “ Ho, every one that thirsteth, come 
ye to the waters,” and so on through the whole beau- 
tiful chapter. The words fell very sweetly on the 
listening ear of the prisoner. Wlmn the reading had 
been followed by the prayer the two men shook 
hands and parted, and parted to meet no more, for 
before Mark visited him again Riddell passed from 
earth to meet Him in whom he had learned to trust. 

Mr. Raeburn in speaking of him said, “ His history 
is a terrible example and warning to those who in- 
dulge the passions of envy, malice, and hatred. Still, 
it is not without its better side, since it shows that 
God’s mercy reaches down even to such as he.” 


Reunions. 


295 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

REUNIONS. 

Shortly after the events recorded in the last chap- 
ter two important changes occurred in the home of 
Mark and Rose Raeburn. The first change occasioned 
much joy, being nothing less than the birth of a son; 
the second caused sorrow, for the good old grand- 
father passed from earth. Shortly after he took his 
little great-grandson to his heart he sickened and 
died. He passed away peacefully, without any ap- 
parent suffering. His daughter Edith held his hand, 
and Mark and Rose were near him. “ I am going, 
dear ones ; meet me in yonder home. Farewell ! ” were 
the last words he said. 

Edith Mansfield went back to her own home, and 
Mark and Rose turned to the little Robert, trying to 
divert their minds from their loss. The property had 
been wisely disposed of. Mark and Rose had the 
dwelling-house, the store, and all the interests con- 
nected with it, and Edith received the greater part of 
a large sum of money which had been accumulating 
through the years. The remainder of it was left to 
charitable purposes. Every thing was satisfactory, so 
the business was soon settled. But neither their hap- 
piness in their little son nor their good fortune hin- 
dered Mark and his wife from longing for the dear 
familiar face, the quiet talks, the prayers, and Chris- 
tian counsel of their aged relative. 


296 


Ebb and Flow. 


Mark wrote to his mother concerning his uncle’s 
death, and the letter brought to her mind that sunset 
hour when he had predicted that they would not 
meet again. “Well, he was old and full of years, 
and his last days were his best days,” she mentally 
observed. “ This is not always the case. Often 
Christians run well for a season, often they honor 
God through long years of poverty and distress ; but 
when, as it seems, God takes compassion on them, and 
rewards their faithfulness by granting them the bless- 
ing of prosperity, they turn from the Giver to the 
gift, and there is a woeful falling off in their last days. 
They are filled with pride, carried away by the deceit- 
fulness of riches ; they are scarcely servants of God 
at all. Perhaps they are not, for the Scriptures 
plainly declare that we are the servants of whom we 
obey. How glad I am that Uncle Robert gave proof 
of growth, constant growth, in grace ! ” 

When she answered Mark’s letter she exhorted 
him to be faithful, to carry on the good work that 
other hands had laid down. 

Mark and his wife had a long talk over that letter, 
and he began by saying, “ Grandfather’s death does 
seem to double our responsibilities, does it not?” 

“ Indeed it does ; and, Mark, you have neglected 
to take up the first duty.” 

“What duty, Rose?” 

“ Family worship. Is npt that the first, or one of 
the first dtities ? Your mother says this, his work, 
falls to you, and surely this can belong to no one 
else.” 

“ I have been thinking about it, Rose.” 

So that evening Mark took his place as priest at the 


Reunions. 297 

family altar, and after the duty was done lie felt much 
happier and safer than before. 

Mark was now very well established. There was 
no prospect that he would ever leave Perth, and he 
was very desirous that his friends should come and 
visit him and see his home and the city. The sum- 
mer after his uncle’s death he planned to have Nor- 
man and his family and Lilias and her husband and 
children with them. Of course, they would come at 
different times, so that the family remaining at home 
could look after the interests of the absent ones. 
Norman, Mary, and little Walter were the first to go. 
There was always a slack spell immediately after 
planting, and Norman found no difficulty in leaving 
home at this time. Walter was already quite a large 
lad, and his uncle was particularly anxious to see him, 
as he was said to resemble the dead Walter. All 
Mark’s trouble, all his good fortune, and all the inter- 
vening years had not effaced from his loyal heart the 
image of his dead brother nor dimmed the precious 
memories of his goodness and worth. Ilis first excla- 
mation was, “ O, he does look like him, like our own 
Walter!” 

This was enough for Mark, and he was likely to 
spoil the child with presents and indulgence. 

Norman thought that Mark was finely situated, and 
certainly he was doing well from more than a worldly 
point of view. Mary and Rose were much pleased 
with each other, and the latter never knew r that her 
husband’s affections had been placed upon Mary. In- 
deed, the memory had almost passed from the minds 
of those most concerned, and no thought of the past 
placed any restraint upon them. They spent a very 


298 


Ebb and Flow. 


pleasant week together, and when they parted Mark 
said playfully, “ Now, don’t carry back an evil report 
of the land, like those who were sent as spies into the 
-land of Canaan, and frighten Lewis and Lilias out of 
their intended visit.” 

“ Little danger of that,” replied Norman ; “ we have 
fared too well and been too well pleased to carry 
back an evil report.” 

Walter was the last one that Mark parted with, and 
he slipped two sovereigns into the little fellow’s 
hand, which made him about as happy as a small lad 
could be. 

At the end of the school term Lewis Gilmore 
and his family visited Perth. Lilias was delighted 
with Rose, and she fully appreciated Mark’s surround- 
ings. Mark and Rose were no less pleased with their 
guests, and the children received a great deal of pet- 
ting. Lewis, Jr., was as much like his father as Lily 
was like her mother, and perhaps this resemblance 
made the little girl a favorite with her uncle Mark. 
Fie was taken back across the years to the time of his 
father’s death, when Lilias was a little girl of Lily’s 
age. No wonder his eyes moistened as he looked at 
her and his voice was tender when he spoke to her. 
Once when Lilias noticed this he told her the reason, 
and with a voice tremulous with emotion he described 
that afternoon when his mother sat bowed under the 
first shock of her sorrow and Lilias stood by her try- 
ing to comfort her. And he added, “ Lily is so much 
like you, Lilias, that the whole scene is fresh before 
me, and those sad, empty days come back. Just to 
think that father has been at rest nearly twenty-two 
years ! ” 


Reunions. 


299 


Lilias could just remember her father’s death, but 
all the particulars of the sorrow had passed from her 
memory, and now she and Mark spent a long time in 
talking over the events of those early days of their 
lives. 

The days sped away, and all too soon the visit was 
at an end ; farewells were spoken, and the same dis- 
tance separated Mark from his friends. 


300 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

ALICE CRAIK AT SERVICE. 

We pass over a period of several years, and again 
find ourselves in tlie cottage of Widow Craik. It is- 
Monday morning, at breakfast- time. John has hur- 
riedly eaten his breakfast and gone to his day’s work. 
Effie, after coming home the day before, had com- 
plained about her clothing. “ Indeed,” she said, 

“ none of us look a whit like other folk.” 

The mother had reproved her for talking of “ such 
things on the Lord’s day,” but when Monday morning 
came Effie resumed the topic, and her mother did not 
reprove her, but sadly began to look facts in the face. 

Alice spoke, saying, “ Dinna, Effie ; you make mat- 
• ters worse by complaining to mother. She canna 
help any thing, and she could easily complain enough 
herself if she would.” 

A few minutes later she said, “ If I could get a 
place of service I could help buy the clothing. I am 
already turned fifteen, and I am right stout. I am 
able to do a deal more than I do at liame, and Effie 
could fill my place here.” 

Hitherto Mrs. Craik had kept her children around 
her, for even John came home at night to sleep be- 
neath her roof. But she knew this could not always 
be. She and her daughters had earned only forty 
shillings by their knitting, and she had not gained 
as much as that in harvest-time. John earned a trifle 


Alice Ckaik at Service. 


301 


mure year after year, but their earnings, all told, made 
a very small sum. So, much as she dreaded to part 
with her elder and more affectionate daughter, she 
saw that the time had come when she could no longer 
shut her eyes to the necessity of a separation. 

“We have bided together until noo, Alice, and I 
would rather do with fewer comforts than part wi’ 
you. Still, this may be the weakness o’ mither-love, 
and I maunna let it overrule my reason.” 

It had cost Widow Craik an effort to say this, and 
as she went about her work Alice caught sight of the 
pained expression on her face, and she said, “ Perhaps 
I can get a place near home, mitlier.” 

“Perhaps so; but I canna think where it will be. 
But this care, as weel as a’ ithers, we are right wel- 
come to carry to our heavenly Father. Let us do it, 
lassie, and take na mair care upon oursel’s.” 

It so happened that Dr. Blair’s wife was in need of 
a servant, and the doctor, having noticed Alice Craik’s 
quiet, industrious ways, and feeling sure that she was 
trusty, spoke of her as one who would be likely to 
suit. His wife, after recalling the girl’s countenance, 
said, “ O, ay, I have watched the lass at the kirk, and 
I was aye pleased with her face.” 

Accordingly, the doctor drove around to the Craik 
cottage in the course of the day. Mrs. Craik met 
him at the door and said, “I liavena sent for you.” 

“ I know it, my good woman. My wife sent me. 
Have you not one lass too many here ? ” 

Alice’s eye brightened. She wanted to answer, but, 
recollecting that she was not addressed, she remained 
silent. She sent her mother a look that said, “Let 
me go ! ” 


302 


Ebb and Flow. 


Mrs. Craik answered, “ In ane sense we hae, and 
in anither we havena. You ken, doctor, that nothing 
but our needs would tempt me to part wi’ Alice ; 
but I would liefer she would be a servant in jour 
house than in onj ither. I am right glad of the offer, 
since only this morn we concluded that she maun 
gang soon.” 

“Now about the wages?” asked the doctor. 

“ You ken what is right. She is but young, though 
she is hand } 7 and willing.” 

“Well, a matter of fifteen pounds or so will be 
right, I think, with now and then a present from the 
mistress if she pleases her.” 

“ Ay, that will do right weel, and thank you, doctor.” 

“ How soon can you be ready, lass ? ” 

“ The morrow night, can I not, mither ? ” 

“ Ay, I should say you could,” was the answer. 

“Well, then, I will drive around for you, Alice. 
See that you don’t disappoint me.” 

“ O, mither ! I am that glad ! ” said Alice, as the 
doctor drove away. 

“ So am I, my bairn. God be praised ! ” 

“ So am I,” said Effie. “ I ken that Alice will have 
a good place, and she will give me a bonnie new 
goun ; willna you, Alice ? ” 

Alice smiled assent, but her mother said, “Effie, 
Effie, I fear you think too muckle o’ yoursel’.” 

“ But I will work for you, mither, and work weel 
too. Why shouldna I have a new goun ? ” 

“ O, ay, lass, it is weel enough to speak o’ it ; you 
havena done wrong.” 

“ I do like bonnie gouns and such like things,” said 
the little girl. 


Alice Craik at Service. 


303 


Alice immediately set about getting ready. Her 
mother helped her, and by the appointed time the 
child was waiting with her effects in readiness. Then 
came the looking for the doctor. Effie soon spied his 
white horse coming toward the cottage, and a few 
minutes later Alice was riding away with him. 

It soon began to grow dark, and the widow gladly 
took the opportunity to shed the tears that were will- 
ing up in her eyes. John had not yet returned, and 
Effie was very quiet because she had no one to talk to. 
She missed Alice already. When John came in he 
said, “ So she has gone ? ” 

“Ay, John, and I suppose she will never bide with 
us again.” 

John looked sober ; he said nothing though he felt 
much. Alice had been his playmate for the little 
time they had to play. The children of poverty often 
know little of care-free childhood. Duties await them 
and must often be undertaken before their strength is 
equal to them. So it had been with John and Alice, 
while Effie, being the youngest, had enjoyed more 
leisure. 

“ Weel, laddie, your supper waits,” said the mother, 
and John sat down by the table and ate alone. The 
others had already eaten with Alice, and some little 
delicacy had been shared together. Neither had the 
hungry boy been forgotten, and he now enjoyed his 
share of the treat. 

When Alice arrived at the doctor’s she was received 
with kindness by her new mistress. The doctor’s 
supper was waiting, and he sat down and motioned 
to Alice to take a seat at the table. But she excused 
herself, saying, “ Thank you, I ate before I left hame.” 


304 


Ebb and Floav. 


“Well, I ate before I left home, too.” 

“ But I had my supper. Indeed I did.” 

“ Tut, tut. Come along and get a cup of hot tea 
and apiece of this chicken. You have had a long ride 
in the chilly autumn air.” 

“ Shall I clear the table ? ” Alice asked as the meal 
was finished. 

“ No, the cook will attend to it to-night,” replied 
Mrs. Blair. “ To-morrow you may begin your work, 
Alice. Alice is a nice, pleasant name, and I am glad 
you have it.” 

Next morning Alice rose fresh and ready for work. 
Nannie, the cook, was very kind, and she explained 
many things to her, and Alice was attentive and sel- 
dom needed a second telling. 

When she had been a week at Dr. Blair’s he said, 
“ Alice, I shall pass your mother’s house to-day ; 
have you any message for her ? ” 

“ Tell her that I am weel and weel content.” 

“ I will, and I will tell her that we are pleased with 
you.” 

“ She will be glad to hear baith statements,” replied 
Alice. 

Time wore on, and the winter came. Alice had not 
been home, but she had the promise of going at Christ- 
mas. Effie’s bonnet and gown were already purchased, 
as well as some presents for her mother and John. 
As the time drew near Alice tried to conceal her impa- 
tience ; but it was not till nearly night the day before 
Christmas that the doctor said, “Now, my lassie, if you 
can get ready at once I can take you home this after- 
noon. I am going near your house, and I will drive 
a little further and set you down at your own door.” 


Alice Craik at Service. 


305 


Alice ran to make the needed preparations, and she 
was soon on her way home. 

That evening the little cottage contained a happy 
family, happy because again united and because sure 
of the continued blessing of God. Effie was happy 
over the long-coveted bonnie gown and gay little 
bonnet that her sister brought her. 

Christmas passed away, and so did the next day, 
and still Dr. Blair did not come for Alice. She grew 
uneasy, and on the afternoon of the third day she de- 
cided to start out on foot. Her mother did not wisli 
her to walk so far, but she did not know but Alice 
might be needed at the doctor’s. Presently a chance 
sleigh came along, and Alice started. But the sleigh 
carried her only two miles, and by that time it began 
to snow. As the child hurried on it snowed faster 
and faster, and it began to grow very cold. “ A sud- 
den change,” thought poor Alice, remembering how 
heavy these falls of snow were wont to be. Night 
drew on, and still she had a long distance to go. She 
was a very resolute girl, and she knew little about 
fear, but as her limbs began to grow numb with cold 
and weariness she wished that she might get a “ cast” 
in some sleigh. But there was nothing to do but 
struggle on, for there was no house in sight. She 
began to grow dizzy and sick, and it was so dark that 
she could not longer be sure of her way. At last she 
stopped. “ There is a ringing in my ears,” she said, 
“ and that isna a good sign.” Soon, however, hope 
revived, for the ringing she heard was the sound of 
distant sleigh-bells, and as they came nearer she said, 
“ The doctor’s ain bells ! The Lord be praised ! Thank 
him for deliverance, for I maun soon hae perished.” 

20 


306 


Ebb and Flow. 


“ Whoa, whoa ! ” called Dr. Blair’s voice. Then he 
called, “ Who are you out in such a storm ? ” 

“ It is Alice, master. I am so glad you came, for 
I couldna walk another step.” 

“ Alice Craik, you bad lass, what made you start 
out on foot ? It is only by the merest chance that I 
came this way at all.” 

“ It wasna chance, master,” replied Alice. Then 
she added to herself, “Ye are of more value than 
many sparrows.” 

“ Now prepare yourself to swallow all the stuff I 
give you, and then hurry to bed,” said the doctor 
when they reached his house. 

As may be supposed, Alice was very obedient, and 
nothing worse than a heavy cold came from her walk 
in the storm. 


The Blind Bairn. 


307 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE BLIND BAIRN. 

The minister’s blind bairn was a great pet through- 
out the parish, and she was generally called “ the lit- 
tle favorite.’’ As her sister held her by the hand at 
the gate of the parsonage or led her out for a short 
walk, many a good-natured lad handed her a little 
package of sweetmeats or a tender-hearted lass 
stooped to kiss her cheek, and not unfrequently a 
rough-handed farmer dropped a silver coin into the 
soft little palm. The mothers regarded her with 
sympathetic expressions, and often these remarks 
were more sympathetic than wise. The child grew 
rapidly, and she seemed perfectly well and happy. 
Perhaps it was because of her infirmity, but the little 
Gertie was dearer to her parents than the other 
children. 

“ Somehow we take a deal of comfort with our little 
bairn if she is blind,” said Mr. Barclay to his wife. 

“ Yes, we do ; and so far she has not known what 
she lacks. But, my dear husband, the worst time is 
yet to come. When her mind begins to expand more 
rapidly it will be difficult to give satisfactory answers 
to her questions.” 

The father sighed as he thought of the future. It 
was a misspent sigh, for Gertie’s mind was not to ex- 
pand here, but in heaven, where blindness as well as 
tears will be wiped from all eyes. 


308 


Ebb and Flow. 


Mr. Barclay, with liis wife and little Gertie, had 
been spending the day at the Widow McCabe’s. They 
returned in the evening facing a raw south wind, and 
the child caught a severe cold which resulted in croup. 
The last half of the night was passed in great anxiety. 
It was almost daylight when Dr. Blair reached the 
manse. 

“ What is the matter with our sightless lamb, doc- 
tor?” asked Mrs. Barclay, following him out of the 
room. 

“ Croup in its very worst form, my dear Mrs. Bar- 
clay.” 

“Is there no hope of her life ? ” 

“ Hone, or next to none,” replied the doctor, gently. 
“We will use all means and pray for a blessing upon 
them. We cannot tell what God’s will is, only that 
it must be wise and blessed.” 

Alas for the father, and for the words of comfort 
he had so often spoken to others ! They were not on 
his tongue. Were they in his heart ? or had sorrow 
and anguish driven them away ? We shall see. The 
good old doctor felt for his pastor, and no longer able 
to endure the dumb, dead silence in his own bluff 
way he rehearsed the truths that were wont to fall so 
easily and naturally from lips more accustomed to 
them. 

“ I suppose, Mr. Barclay, that our religion fits right 
into a sorrow like yours.” 

The pastor raised his eyes and fixed them on the 
speaker, who continued : 

“ When I lost my child, and it was an only one, a 
bright little la.d about Gertie’s age, I did not have the 
comfort of religion. I did not feel that God is love, 


The Blind Bairn. 


309 


and that whatsoever he doetli is for our good. I knew 
only that he might have spared my child to me if he 
had willed it. It would have been easier if I had 
known what you know, if by walking closely with 
him I had learned what you are so well assured of, 
that nothing but fatherly love and wisdom metes out 
our joys and sorrows. Then I could have looked up 
through my tears into my Father’s face and said, 
‘ The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away ; 
blessed be the name of the Lord.’ ” 

Large tears began to rain down the pastor’s face, 
and he said, “ I am ashamed of my grief; it must ap- 
pear stubborn. I have been struggling to feel sub- 
missive, but the dear little one has so gotten into my 
affections that I find it hard to give her up. Still, 
I am not rebellious, and 1 know that in the end faith 
will triumph.” 

The other children had been early roused, and they 
wandered from room to room that they might not 
hear the labored breathing of the little sufferer. Still, 
they were sure to return to the bedside, for they 
knew that each look might be the last. 

“ The little favorite is very ill,” was heralded 
through the neighborhood, and many anxious friends 
came to inquire after the child. More than one gray- 
haired man leaning upon his staff found his way to 
the manse that day and looked the last upon the lit- 
tle child who had never been able to look at others. 
It would have been impossible to test all the reme- 
dies that w^ere prescribed by well-meaning friends ; 
for each mother and grandmother was anxious to rec- 
ommend some cure that might be of use. But all 
the care and nursing was of no avail. Early the next 


310 


Ebb and Flow. 


evening the mother pressed to her heart for the last 
time the blind child, who was now also deaf to the 
sobs of the bereft family. Gertie was dead. No ; 
the words sound harsh ; rather let us say, Gertie was 
gone, gone to join the angels whom she so much re- 
sembled. 

As soon as the child was dead Mr. Barclay, like 
King David, sorrowed no longer. He rose up com- 
forted, and he comforted others. Dr. Blair’s words 
were not lost upon him: “I atn well assured that 
nothing but fatherly love and care metes out our joys 
and sorrows.” He said aloud, “ That is so, and I 
must make that assurance manifest. I can see now 
that it is better for the child to leave this world. We 
have felt all the time that she was almost angelic, 
that since her bodily eyes were sealed the eyes of her 
soul had a wider range of sight. Now she is beyond 
her infirmity and beyond pain and sorrow. I am re- 
signed. It is well with the child.” 

Thomas and Ellen found it very hard to give up 
their little sister. They could not realize as the par- 
ents did that it was for the best. Thomas had loved 
to carry her when she was little, and, large as she was, 
he had not entirely dropped the habit. He often 
carried her to the school-master's home and let her 
play with Lily. Both the Gilmore children loved to 
have Gertie come, and not even Ellen could be more 
careful in the treatment of the blind child than were 
the “school-master’s twins.” 

Now this was all past. Thomas and Ellen knew 
that they would never again lift her to her chair at 
the table, never see her ^uile nor hear her speak, and 
they could not be comforted. Their grief was nil- 


The Blind Bairn. 


311 


controllable when the little coffin was lowered and the 
earth fell upon it. They had often heard the sounds, 
for they had seen many funerals, but never before had 
they heard the hollow sound above one that was dear 
to them. 


312 


Ebb and Flow. 


CHAPTER L. 

WIDOW RAEBURN’S AFFLICTION. 

Widow Raeburn had seen so little trouble for sev- 
eral years that she began to think that the sorrows 
of her life were all past, and that in the future there 
would be nothing but a succession of quiet joys. 
Now a new affliction awaited her. She had never 
undergone physical suffering, and she had ne’wer real- 
ized what a heavy cross it might be. Year after year 
excellent health was hers to enjoy, and while she was 
grateful for all her blessings she never felt especially 
thankful for her strong, healthy constitution. A pain, 
both acute and protracted, fastened upon her. It was 
chiefly in her head and neck, and the doctor pro- 
nounced it neuralgia. It was very tiresome, very 
wearing ; yet little could be done for her. It seemed 
to sap her strength and ambition and absorb her 
thoughts. She tried to keep from murmuring or com- 
plaining, but she often found the words of Job in her 
heart if not upon her lips. Sometimes she would say, 
“Truly, ‘Wearisome nights are appointed to me. 
When I lie down, I say, When shall I arise, and the 
night be gone ? and I am full of tossings to and fro 
unto the dawning of the day.’ ” 

Once the pain attacked her in the region of the 
heart, and her friends were very anxious for her 
safety. Never before had she known the devotion 
of her children. Liliaf neglected her home duties or 


Widow Raeburn’s Affliction. 313 

* 

passed them over to her mother-in-law. Norman 
hung around her bedside anxious to do the little that 
could be done for her comfort, and little Walter often 
wept as he sat beside his suffering grandmother. 
Mark left his business and came to show his filial re- 
gard if he could do no more, and his very presence 
seemed to comfort the sufferer. 

The doctor made all possible efforts to remove the 
pain from that dangerous locality, and at last he suc- 
ceeded. Good, kind Dr. Blair, how much he was to 
them all in those dark days, for he always brought a 
cheerful face and a hopeful word ! How he was 
watched, how he was questioned, how they hung upon 
his words, and when the worst was over how they 
thanked him with tears ! 

Though their fears were allayed Mrs. Raeburn 
was much debilitated. The pain in her head was still 
severe, and it deprived her of rest. She was still re- 
garded as an invalid, and not till the warm, balmy 
days of June was she entirely free from her pain. 
Even then she rejoiced with trembling, she was so 
fearful of a return of her malady. 

During Widow Raeburn’s illness a little daughter 
came to Norman’s home. He at once named her 
Jessie, and the grandmother was much gratified. 
Health having returned to them, the family were 
happy again. 

Walter attended the school where his father and 
mother were educated, and where was formed the 
friendship that ripened into love and marriage. His 
uncle Lewis being his teacher, he was helped ahead as 
fast as possible. He classed with the master’s children 
and with Ellen and Thomas Barclay. Walter was 


314 


Ebb and Flow. 


kind and obliging, and he easily made many friends. 

He went to bis grandmother with all his adventures, 
and he ever found a ready listener. If she had a 
favorite among her grandchildren it was Walter. She 
always called him “ Wee Walter,” for the other Wal- 
ter was not forgotten, not lost to her, only separated 
from her for a time. In the bright hereafter they 
were to meet again, and she now began to realize that 
at the longest it would be but a little while. As she 
arranged her hair she saw that it was thin and gray ; 
she knew that the years were fast passing away and 
her youth lay a long way behind her. 

Mrs. Gilmore and she often talked of the past. 
Often they said to each other, “ Who would have 
thought when we separated to go to homes of our 
own that we would be thus intimately connected 
through the marriages of our children ? ” They found 
much enjoyment in each other’s society ; they had 
comforted each other in sorrow, and now they en- 
joyed the blessings that were theirs. Even their 
griefs had been softened by time, and memory jeal- 
ously guarded the pleasing scenes. Often they sat 
side by side or knee to knee and spoke with tender- 
ness of the husbands of their youth. 

They had many interests in common, for the chil- 
dren in two families were the grandchildren of both. 

Mrs. Gilmore found a good daughter in Lilias, and 
Mrs. Raeburn was perfectly satisfied with Mary. The 
marriage relations in both families were vpry happy, 
and both women felt that the providence of God had ♦ 
been over them and that their mercies outnumbered 
their sorrows. 


Tiie Good Old Doctor. 


315 


CHAPTER LI. 

THE GOOD OLD DOCTOR. 

While the summer gave Widow Raeburn freedom 
from pain it brought sickness to many a home. Dr. 
Blair was almost constantly riding about attending 
his patients. He thought of everybody but himself, 
and seemed to forget that he was no longer young. 
Week after week passed, and there was no cessation 
of his labors. At length the complaint became less 
prevalent, and health returned to cheer the depressed. 
In many hearts were nurtured tender and grateful 
thoughts of the good old doctor who had made the 
cares and sorrows of others his own. “ My rest will 
come when I am needed less,” he said. 

But alas for the rest he had promised himself ! It 
was so different from what he had planned it. His 
easy-chair had often looked very inviting as he hur- 
ried out to drive over weary miles, and he said within 
himself, “ The comforts of home will be mine to en- 
joy after a while, but duty calls me now.” 

His easy-chair was soon to be entirely vacant. Al- 
most the last one who suffered from the epidemic was 
Dr. Blair himself, and he was so worn and weak that 
lie went right down to the grave. But, short as was 
his illness, it gave the people time to show their sym- 
pathy and anxiety. Never since the sickness and 
death of the good old pastor had the feelings of the 
public been so stirred. He was the theme of conver- 


310 


Ebb and Flow. 


sation in the home of the rich and poor. “ I hope 
he will live ! ” was on the tongue of the young and 
the old, the wise and the simple. But he was to live 
only in their memories, and the rest he needed came 
in heaven. 

In the doctor’s last hours he found great comfort in 
the thought that, under God, he had been the means 
of alleviating much suffering during that long, try- 
ing summer, and that he had in more than one in- 
stance pointed the dying to the cross of Christ. He 
did not regret that he had not taken better care of 
himself, and when some one suggested that it would 
have been better if he had, he replied, “ It is not well 
to think only of ourselves. Did not the Master say, 
‘ Whosoever will save his life shall lose it : and who- 
soever will lose his life for my sake shall find it ? ’ 
Perhaps I should not have remained in health if I had 
stayed at home and barred both door and heart against 
the needs of my people. I say my people, for I felt 
that they were mine to watch over and to help. I 
have been present when most of the parents as well 
as the children first breathed the breath of life, and I 
have attended them in their sickness and tried to 
comfort them in their sorrows. I have an honest con- 
viction that I have been faithful to them. God help 
me if I have not ! For my dear wife’s sake I would 
fain live, but her loss can be more than made up to 
her by the presence of the Comforter whom the Mas- 
ter said he would send into the world.” 

In his frequent talks with his wife nothing seemed 
to be left unsaid, and yet when he was gone Mrs. Blair 
thought of many things that now must remain unan- 
swered. She was very lonely, and she invited a dis- 


The Good Old Doctor. 


317 


taut relative to occupy part of the house. Although 
she now had less work for her servants she would not 
part with either. Nannie had been with her for 
many years, and she was exactly suited with Alice. 
“ There is money enough and to spare, and they can 
just as well have their wages as not,” she said. So 
Alice had a good home and a life of comparative ease. 
She often thought of her mother, John, and Ellen 
away in their little cot on the moor, but she seldom 
visited them, for Mrs. Blair disliked to have her fa- 
vorite servant leave her. It was plain to Alice that 
her mistress was fast failing, and one day she said, “ I 
doubt, Alice,, if I stay long behind the doctor.” 

Alice tried to speak hopefully, but Mrs. Blair an- 
swered, “ No, no ; I am not long for this world. But 
Alice, lass, bide with me till the end comes, and you 
will not regret it. There will be a pleasing surprise 
waiting for you when all is over with me.” 

She mused a while, and then spoke again : “ I said 
when all is over with me. It is fitter to say when I 
begin to live, for we might say with Paul, ‘ I die 
daily.’ But in the other life there is no death nor 
fear of death. Even the fear that we suffered here 
in anticipation will pass from our remembrance, and 
we shall only realize that we have reached a happy 
and glorified existence.” 

“ Do you think, then, that in heaven we shall for- 
get what we have suffered here ? ” 

“ My idea of it, Alice, is this — that we will not be 
allowed to remember any thing that would disturb 
us. In reality, of course, we know nothing of heaven 
in comparison to what we are to know hereafter. 
This much we do know, that we shall have all the 


318 


Ebb and Flow. 


happiness we can enjoy, and with that knowledge we 
should be well content.” 

Mrs. Blair lived but two years after her husband’s 
death. When the business was settled Nannie and 
Alice found that their mistress had left them each a 
cottage. The doctor had invested considerable prop- 
erty in real estate, and his wife had the disposition of 
them. The faithful servants were very happy in their 
good fortune, though they deeply grieved over the 
kind mistress who had so well remembered them. 
Nannie had saved a large sum during her long serv- 
ice, and Alice’s savings were not to be despised. At 
twenty-one she found herself the owner of a nice lit- 
tle cottage and nearly a hundred pounds besides. 
Pier first thought was for her mother’s comfort, and 
she soon installed her as mistress of the cottage. 
Alice and Effie sought and found employment that 
occupied them during the day, and they returned 
home at night. John kept the old cottage, married, 
and was happy and contented, though he was a day- 
laborer, with no prospect of any change for the better. 
Alice furnished the cottage throughout, partly be- 
cause their old furniture would hardly answer in their 
new home, and partly that the old cottage might be 
ready for John. Effie found much happiness in their 
bettered condition. She still retained her old love of 
dress, and her mother often said, “ Effie, it will be 
long before you save a hundred pounds, as Alice did.” 

Alice, who was present, smiled and answered for 
Effie : “ Let her make herself look bonnie, mitlier, 
then she will make a good match. You and I will 
be glad of her happiness while we bide here, content 
with our lot and with each other.” 


Mark’s Mother Finds a Home. 


319 


CHAPTER LI I. 

MARK’S MOTHER FINDS A HOME. 

Mark and Rose Raeburn were expecting friends, 
and from the extent of their preparations it was 
evident that their guests would not make a short 
stay. The truth was that Mark had made good his 
claim to his mother, and an arrangement had been 
made so that Nor man’s family could spare her. Lily 
Gilmore had grown into a healthy, capable young 
woman, and she was now all the help her mother re- 
quired ; so Widow Gilmore had a desire to spend her 
days with her own daughter. Norman’s home was 
open to her, and Mark was anxious to have his 
mother with him. 

Walter was to go with his grandmother, for his 
Uncle Mark promised to do well by him. Mrs. Rae- 
burn was pleased that Walter was to go with her, 
and his parents were very grateful for Mark’s offer, 
for he was not needed at home and he could receive 
no further school advantages in the country. 

So, although there were many changes, no one was 
displeased or inconvenienced, and only the pain of 
separation darkened the prospect. Lilias must part 
with her mother, Norman with both mother and son. 
Then the two widows were loath to separate. Their 
early friendship, their early sorrows, and the subse- 
quent changes which had united their families made 
them almost necessary to each other. Rut the part- 


320 


Ebb and Flow. 


ings were at last over, and with many good wishes 
following them the travelers set out. 

Mark gave his mother a hearty welcome to his home, 
and he felt that the dream of his boyhood, was now 
realized. Rose was nearly as well pleased as her hus- 
band, and both were surprised to see what a line, 
manly boy Walter was. Mark was not a little proud 
of his nephew, and he resolved to give the boy a good 
chance. 

Mrs. Raeburn had never seen Mark’s children, for 
Robert had a little brother named Evan. It was a 
name long unused by the widow, for she always fan- 
cied that naming her husband made her feel his loss 
more keenly. So she hardly knew whether she was 
glad or sorry that Mark had given the name to his 
younger child. She took the little one on her knee, 
and, wishing to have the ordeal over, she spoke the 
name “ Evan.” Her voice had a far-away sound, and 
certainly her thoughts were far away, and the tears 
stood in her eyes. She checked her feelings and said, 
“ I am glad, Mark, that you have not forgotten your 
father.” She bent her head and kissed the child, and 
added, “ I always thought Evan a very pretty name.” 

Robert next claimed her attention, and Mark laugh- 
ingly said, “If 1 had been as particular as Joseph I 
would have had you embrace my elder son first.” 

His mother raised her eyes to his, and in that look 
he read her excuse. 

“It is all right, mother,” he said. 

“ In good truth, Mark, only the memory of one 
person is more precious to me than Uncle Robert’s.” 
Turning to the child, she said, “My little laddie, may 
you be as worthy a man as he for whom you are 


Mark’s Mother Finds a Home. 321 

called.” She smiled fondly upon him and kissed him 
on either cheek. 

The greetings being over, the travelers were led out 
to supper. A cup of tea refreshed the grandmother, 
and Walter found that his journey had given him a 
good appetite, and he did justice to his uncle’s fare. 

Next morning found Mrs. Raeburn well and thor- 
oughly rested. Walter was already quite at home 
and anxious to go sight-seeing. When he was at 
Perth before he was a small boy, and he remembered 
just enough about the place to make him in a hurry 
to see it again. He could better appreciate his un- 
cle’s fine residence, and he felt no little pride that it 
was to be his home for a few years. With the impet- 
uosity of youth he hurried from place to place, de- 
lighted with every thing he saw. When he came in 
to dinner he had much to say and many questions to 
ask. His uncle watched him with much interest, and 
he said aside to Rose, “Fine chap, that!” Walter 
spent the rest of the week in getting acquainted with 
the town, and on the following MoTiday he took his 
place behind the counter in his uiicle’s store. 

While Walter was sight-seeing the grandmother 
had been quietly and gratefully examining her own 
room. It was very neat and pretty in its appoint- 
ments, and it showed that her son had studied her 
tastes and been at no little trouble to gratify them. 
“ Truly we should never fear to trust the Lord ! ” was 
her ejaculation. Then her thoughts went back to 
those dark days before this same son left home, days 
when her heavy heart ached and her eyes overflowed 
because of the blight that seemed to have settled down 
upon his prospects. This blight had long since been 
21 


322 


Ebb and Flow. 


removed, and prosperity and happiness were his. But 
better than any worldly gain was the well-grounded 
hope of eternal life beyond the grave, a hope that the 
drunkard may not cherish. Mrs. Baeburn was happy, 
and yet she and her dear ones had met with so many 
changes that she rejoiced with trembling. She felt 
no reluctance to contemplate that future existence 
that is subject to no cares nor sorrows, but that goes 
on from glory to greater glories and from blessedness 
to greater blessedness while the ages of eternity roll. 


A Brief Look Around. 


323 


CHAPTER LI II. 

A BRIEF LOOK AROUND. 

We now come to the close of our story, and so take 
a brief look into several homes. 

Mrs. Raeburn found considerable difficulty in keep- 
ing her promise to her aunt Alice Kenyon, yet she 
visited the farm-house as often as possible. The two 
uncles who lived in the Wallace neighborhood were 
dead, and the Widow Kenyon was fast failing. 

Mrs. Raeburn’s last visit to her aunt Alice was 
made just before she left her old home to go to 
Mark’s. She found the aged woman very feeble, 
though sound in mind and firm in the Christian’s 
faith. Ellen’s hair was growing gray, and her once 
round face bore traces of years and care. She had 
been blessed with prosperity, and her children were 
around her. Some were married, and some were un- 
married, and all were good and dutiful. Roderick, 
being several years his wife’s senior, had failed more 
than she had. But he was hale and hearty, and, being 
of a merry turn of mind, he declared that he would 
never grow old. Their home was one of comfort and 
happiness. Some of the children and grandchildren 
were constantly coming and going. It was a pleasing 
sight to Roderick to see the great-grandmother fondle 
his children’s children. “I like that weel,” he was 
wont to say when the four generations came together. 
And so did the aged Alice like it well. But she was 


324 


Ebb and Flow. 


waiting, willing and ready for the call that would re- 
move her to the friends upon the other side. 

Alfred Gilmore and his wife found that they lost 
nothing by following a course entirely different from 
that which Farmer McCabe had practiced* during the 
greater part of his life. And Mrs. McCabe was one 
with them in liberality toward the support of the 
Gospel and in generosity toward the deserving poor. 
They were three people who really enjoyed giving, 
and they felt that they were but stewards of what had 
been placed in their hands. So they were happy in 
serving God and aiding their fellow-beings, and happy 
in one another’s society. There were four bright lit- 
tle children growing up in the house, and the walls 
rang with merriment. Alfred’s friends were near 
him, and they often interchanged visits with the fam- 
ilies of Lewis and Mary. Of course, they never failed 
to bring the dear silver-haired mother with them. 
She had been called “ Sweet Annice ” in her youth, and 
although that was long in the distance, and no one 
called her by her name, yet her many friends thought 
that she was still sweet in her disposition. 

Tommy and Dolly Burns still lived in the comfort- 
able little cottage on Widow McCabe’s farm. Tommy 
was about as permanently settled as Alfred himself, 
for the latter had no idea of doing without Tommy, 
lie could have found no one to fill his place, and as 
the family increased the father’s wages increased, so 
that there was no lack of the real comforts of life. 
Dolly was a good wife, a wise mother, and a good man- 
ager withal, and Tommy thought her like was not to be 
found. With his willing consent she named her first- 
born son Angus. The grandmother objected, but she 


A Brief Look Around. 


325 


was overruled by her son, and she lived to see a second 
grandson, who bore the name of Thomas. Then she was 
satisfied, and during her last sickness she said, “ Dolly, 
my own daughter couldna be kinder than you are ; ” 
and she finally passed away blessing her daughter-in- 
law. A little girl bore her name in Tommy’s home, 
and a second daughter was called Judith. The young- 
est of the flock was still an infant, and Dolly wished 
to call him Peter. Tommy gave his consent, and 
Dolly was satisfied. 

“Now, Tommy, I hae done naming bairns,” she 
said. “ If the Lord should send us six sons more you 
shall have the naming of them ! ” 

Her husband laughed and answered, “ I doubt my 
ability to provide for six more bairns.” 

He had just come from John Craik’s, and he said, 
“John has a fine bairn too, and he tells me that his 
sister Effie is to wed with one James Graham, a 
brother to Nannie, the doctor’s servant. John says it 
is a right good chance for Effie.” 

“ How is the Widow Craik ? ” asked Dolly. 

“ O, fine ! weel as can be, John says. Weel, Alice 
is a daughter to keep heart in a mother.” 

« Ay, she is that ! ” replied Dolly, as she helped the 
two little girls in bed. “Now, Angus, you and 
Tommy must away too, if you are to be up in the 
morning.” 

She then took her knitting, and, jogging the cradle 
with her foot, sang a soft lullaby to wee Peter, who 
was “wearisome.” When the child was asleep she 
said, “ I suppose Alice and her mother dinna live as 
they did ance.” 

“I should say not. John says they have carpets 


326 


Ebb and Flow. 


on the floors, and easy-cliairs and such things. I mind 
when they hardly had a stool apiece in the auld cot. 
Weel, we canna tell who will he prospered and who 
willna. We arena prospered very much, but I am 
content with what the Lord sends us.” 

“ So am I, Tommy,” replied his wife. 

So here we will leave them in peace and content- 
ment. 

Lewis Gilmore and Lilias sat with their children 
beside their pleasant hearth. The candles were not 
lighted, though lights had for more than an hour 
gleamed from the windows of the manse. They were 
talking in low, earnest tones, and perhaps they felt 
that they could talk better by the firelight. Certainly 
Lily did, and she had withdrawn from the circle and 
sat in the shadow. It was of her they were talking. 
The first marriage in the family was approaching, 
and in a few weeks Lily was to marry Thomas Barclay. 
It had never before been talked of so familiarly, and 
Lily was glad to hide her blushes under cover of dark' 
ness. Lewis, Jr., was teaching school in a distant neigh- 
borhood, and his home-coming had occasioned this 
talk in the firelight. 

When the subject had been sufficiently discussed 
the father said, “ I suppose you know, Lewis, that 
your little cousin Jessie is very ill ? ” 

“ Is she no better ? ” 

“ Yes, she is improving very slowly. By the way, 
Lilias, I must go out for an hour or so. I have an 
errand at the manse, and I must go to Norman’s and 
inquire about Jessie. Besides, I want to hear from 
your mother. I understand that they had a letter to- 
day.” 


A Brief Look Around. 327 

“ I will go with you, father,” said Lewis, and the 
two set out. 

The sitting-room at the manse looked very inviting 
as they entered it. Mr. Barclay and his wife looked 
happy and contented, and Ellen was an attractive 
young lady. Indeed, it began to be hinted that in 
time there might be more than one marriage between 
the families at the manse and the school-master’s 
cottage. But we will not dwell on that now. The 
father and son received a warm welcome, and a half- 
hour passed very quickly.' Then Lewis went on to 
the home of his sister. 

They found that Jessie was a little better. Mary 
held her in her arms as if she had been an infant. She 
was so thin that her weight was not burdensome, and 
the change was welcome. She seemed almost given 
back from death, and both father and mother smiled 
fondly upon her. 

The mother’s letter was given to Lewis to read, 
also one from Walter. The last one was not read 
before Jessie, as it was too sad for her to hear. Poor 
Walter ! In the midst of his success he felt very anx- 
ious for his little sister. He wrote : “ I often think 
of the coffin of the ‘ little favorite ’ as I saw it let 
* down into the grave, and I pray God that Jessie may 
live.” He added many touching words that would 
have frightened Jessie if she had heard them, and so 
they were kept from her. 

But the grandmother’s letter was more carefully 
worded. She also hoped and prayed for the precious 
young life, and she counseled the parents to keep up 
their hope and courage. She wrote : 

U I am inclined to think that your darling will be 


328 


Ebb and Flow. 


spared to you. Sickness is one of the afflictions to 
which we are heirs. It is often sent for the trial of 
our faith or some other good ; we seldom know why 
it is sent. But He who sends it knows why. Let us 
trust him, my dear children, and some time we shall 
know that all is wisely ordered. I can but think that 
our sorrows are aye to bring us more closely to him- 
self, and that our joys are to give us heart and hope 
while we tread our pilgrim way through the wilder- 
ness of this life. Whatever God’s reasons are, they 
are always wise and good. Hever let go that belief. 

“ The letter that brought the news of our dear 
little Jessie’s sickness told also of Lily’s betrothal. I 
thought for a long time over both the sad and the 
joyful news. And it took me back to other days, days 
when Lilias grieved for her first-born. That was her 
greatest sorrow; doubtless she counts this happiness 
that has fallen to Lily among her joys. Then I lived 
over the time of my greatest sorrow, when my best 
earthly friend was taken from me. I felt that all the 
joy had gone out of my life and that I could never 
be happy again. It was then, Mary, that your dear 
grandfather came to my help. He told me that I 
would find happiness again, that joys and sorrows are 
ever alternating in this life ; like the tide, there is a 
constant ebb and flow, ebb and flow. 1 have found 
it so, my children, and you must expect changes. 
Be prepared for them by always feeling as well as 
knowing that our happiness is in God’s hands, and he 
makes no mistakes. He doeth all things well.” 

“ Mother writes as she talks,” remarked Horman. 

“ Ay, and, whether talking or writing, her language 
is that of a trusting Christian,” replied Lewis. 


A Brief Look Around. 


329 


“ She could hardly be a distrusting Christian,” 
suggested Mary. 

Mrs. Gilmore slowly answered, “You are right, 
Mary ; distrust is not among the fruits of the Spirit. 
'Well is it for you if you realize it in this your time 
of trial.” 

“What does mother write?” asked Lilias, when 
her husband returned. 

“As Norman says, she writes as she talks. Her 
letter is one to inspire us with hope and trust. She 
speaks of the change from joy to sorrow, and from 
sorrow to joy, as things to be looked for and prepared 
for. She quoted my grandfather’s words concerning 
these changes, when he likened them to the ebb and 
flow of the tide.” 

“ I remember,” said Lilias ; “ she has more than 
once repeated them to me. She has had her sorrows, 
and heavy ones, too. May she have few more ! God 
bless her ! ” 

Yes, she had passed through sorrows, but her joys 
had outnumbered them. She had had joys in her 
children’s joys, and as she recounted the mercies that 
had fallen to her and her dear ones she was reminded 
of the grandfather’s blessing, spoken when his dying 
hand rested upon the head of his “ Jeannie’s lass.” 


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